No Coincidence
by Kumon5
Summary: Erik and Christine are destined to be together, but someone is intent on keeping them apart. That someone has shifty motives- but could the other side be working for a good cause as well?
1. Chapter 1: Pissenlit

**Chapter 1: Pissenlit**

"E2 to C6," Erik repeated disbelievingly, shaking his head yet again. "Are you quite sure, Madame, that this is not another one of M. Gabriel's frequent nervous breakdowns?" The stern woman pulled her shawl tighter about her as her eyes darted from one corner to another. Satisfaction at finally amazing the Opera Ghost did nothing for the fight-or-flight reflex in the pit of her stomach. His lair had always unnerved her.

"Yes, yes, I was there myself," she snapped. "It isn't so amazing, only the regular-"

He wasn't listening. He never did, did he?

"Finally, this wretched place affords people to listen to who are superior to Guidicelli's squawking! This is the best thing to happen since I received a raise from Lefevre!" Erik, being a very physical man despite his wan physique, sprang from his perch in the stalactites of the cave and alighted silently on the smooth floor.

"A raise under threat of death, you mean," Giry muttered as the composer popped the cork on a celebratory (and ill-gained) bottle of champagne.

"Excuse me?" He turned, and the hardened lady glimpsed a hint of an arch smirk on his thin, pale lips. "I do believe, Antoinette that one is supposed to be joyful over the arrival of a new cast, and not grieving over past experiences." Mismatched eyes, the left gold and the other silver, studied their owner's ally, reading the runes of her wrinkles and frowning mouth. He had known 'Antoinette' for two years now, and she still hadn't told him her true first name. She would change the subject in three, two, one… now.

"Do try not to scare them away when I bring them here for lessons." Giry held back a self-satisfied smiled as the opera's villain spluttered and choked on his drink. "And do not disagree with me on this arrangement. Richard and Moncharmin have already submitted their admittedly forced approval and fired Carlotta. These five will impress you; only, do not impress them in the wrong way. You might lose them." With that, the old ballet mistress slid back one of the many mirrors in the lair and took the stairs five floors up to the stage.

Erik retrieved a spare handkerchief from one of his many pockets and lowered himself into one of his handmade armchairs. _Merde… Giry seems to think that getting me out of trouble once gives her the right to give me trouble five times over… Gah! Students!_

Perhaps Gabriel's observations were accurate for once, and these new actors did have talent. Perhaps they would disappoint him. With a heavy sigh, _le fantome _began a letter to the managers.

_Mssrs. Moncharmin and Richard:_

_It has come to my attention that M. Gabriel has not been up to my easily reachable standards as of late. He is obviously unstable and needs at least a year of rehabilitation in a mental facility. I would recommend sending him to the Americas, as they have improved their mental facilities- I can only hope that both of you do as well._

_As for his duties, I will gladly fill in for him as chorus director; seeing as the new cast (you know very well of whom I am writing: the five newest additions to my theatre) will doubtlessly need proper training, you will send them to me in this off season as soon as possible, and without fail._

_I must repeat, as your thick skulls will not register the previous sentence: you will not fail. Please reference my earlier letters of exhortation should you need to refresh your memories of the reasons you will not fail._

_Sincerely,_

_Le Fantome_

…

"Absolutely not!" Moncharmin shouted, not caring that the following (censored) expletives greatly disturbed the whole of the chorus rehearsal. "We are not sending five of the best voices down in that hellhole to be murdered by a madman!" His slightly threadbare (hair-bare?) scalp glistened under the hydrogen lamps. Mme. Giry fixed him with a cold glare.

"It is not a matter of this 'we,' you speak of, but a matter of _him_. _He_ controls this institution, not you. Otherwise, be gone with you and I will be the manager for the rest of my life." She emphasized her point with the slightly snooty jut of her chin. M. Richard eyed his partner.

"I can't say I'm entirely opposed to the Ph-"

"No! Don't say it!" the other manager hissed, glancing about as if a sandbag were about to drop on their heads at any moment.

"Very well. _He_ has made some improvements to this establishment, and while his activities are undoubtedly criminal, we would not be receiving our generous annual income." The eldest of the three cleared her throat and hurried on before anyone could object.

"I shall begin the newcomers' regimens with the Ghost without delay, then." She ignored the startled calls of "Blast!" and "Wait!" as she strode out to the foyer. Soon, everything would be in its place, and her Meg could become Mme. la Baronne de Castelot-Barbezac… Legally!

…

Dark brown curls were carelessly pushed to one side as Christine observed the other hopefuls sitting next to her on the granite steps to the stage. The chorus was rehearsing a bit from Gomes' _Il Guarany_, but a Brazilian opera was the last thing on her normally scattered mind. Her color-shifting eyes crept clockwise around the large, polished room. _When Papa mentioned colorful characters in the entertainment business, I never thought he meant foreigners…_

To her left was a tall man, probably in his late twenties. He hadn't spoken at all, only stroked his dark brown hair, quite obviously worried about something. His features were anything but delicate- burns something akin to those of a grease fire speckled his visible right cheekbone, and his large, arched nose was crooked from being broken at least once.

_And what is his name? I don't know anyone here…_ Suddenly, the thought was terrifying. She would not have her father with her to help her, nor her mother to comfort her. He had been dead for a few months now, and there had been no angel as she had foolishly believed. _No Angel… Why didn't you tell me the truth, papa? Could not your last words have been something true? Or were you delirious?_

Right next to him sat a redhead with eyes almost too bright and curves almost too extreme to be natural. She was definitely wearing an expensive corset, although how it allowed her lungs enough air to fuel incessant chatter in a lilting Irish brogue, Christine would never know. _Black is the night, bright is the light… I only wish the light was slightly more modest._

"And what's your name, lad?" the redhead queried, wrinkling her round face with a sniffle as she turned to the next person. Said 'lad' happened to be just that, possibly younger than the young brunette who was quietly watching. His olive skin failed to hide the blush that crept up his neck out of shyness.

"Ischyros." Across from Christine, a lithe girl with a brown complexion and ink for hair scoffed, her accent thick but still unidentifiable.

"You will never make it if you are as-" she searched for the right words, then found them and continued: "As timid as a snail in the presence of salt!" the girl finished rather triumphantly, seemingly unaware of her muddy cloak and the knife at her hip. _What sort of savage land did she come from, that she feels the need to carry a weapon?_

A sharp tapping came from the top of the staircase as the steel tip of a cane struck stone. The five singers stood instinctively.

"Attention on me, please," Mme. Giry called at Christine, who was nervously playing with one of her tight ringlets. "And do not play with your hair. It is unbecoming." A severe stare forced the girl to drop her hair and fold her hands. "Now, all of you will enter through these double doors in single file, no talking, nor smoking, drinking, or engaging in anything disturbing while on the job or in this building. You will not disturb the composer, or his music, and you will not mention his mask on pain of death. Understood?"

The five nodded vigorously, like reprimanded children. _On pain of death? Mask? Just what kind of maniac have I gotten myself involved with? Oh, papa…was this really what you wanted?_

…

_A sweet melody hummed in the chilly spring air of a meadow as Gustave Daae played an excerpt from The Trout. He did not care who had composed it, so long as it was playable and Christine liked it. At the moment, his surprisingly innocent daughter was oblivious to everything except the music and the crown of flowers in her slender hands. At last, he finished the excerpt and sat down next to his child._

"_Don't you want to leave any of the flowers to make seeds for next spring?" She looked up at him. An eyelash was loose just at the corner of her left eye, which was a blue so bright it almost glowed._

"_Of course I do, but these flowers grew and were surrounded by the frost again. They wouldn't have survived another week, so they might as well be beautiful in a different way," the girl asserted, placing the multicolored blooms atop her father's head. He smiled and stood._

"_Ah, but if these little sprouts were people, wouldn't they want to live as long as they could, and be beautiful for a meadow and not a graying head?" Christine stood up, and, not bothering to brush the leftover greenery and damp from her wool coat, walked arm-in-arm with the older man back to the small cottage they'd rented for the season._

"_Gracing your head is the greatest opportunity for a flower, I'm sure of it!" she laughed. "What would you like for dinner? Meatballs?" It was an old joke of theirs. They were far too poor to buy meat, much less spices, so it had become something to laugh about over the years as opposed to something to cry about. The rich who had meat on the table every day had nothing, really, except bad health and bad moods._

_Gustave turned away to adjust the shutters on the one small window the shack possessed. Christine stomped her boots to rid their soles of slush. A note had been left on the door with an official-looking seal._

"_Papa, I think you should come and look at this. It's for you." The prematurely old man took the note and began to read._

"_Gustave Daae: You have thus far evaded military service with the excuse of caring for a daughter. It has come to my attention that she is now old enough to look after herself, and you are still young enough to fulfill the remainder of your years in our nation's army and your days in the militia. Your time is increased because of your delay to six years and forty-two days. You must report to the nearest base as soon as possible. Yours, Oscar II of Sverige."_

…

_Erik was, at the moment, pissing into the open, snoring mouth of his captor. The wretch had passed out still holding his bottle of vodka, and probably wouldn't notice the taste of urine on his tongue when he woke with a tremendous headache and an urge to beat something over the head. _Still, _Erik thought, _he should thank me. Even pig slop and feces would be an improvement to his breath. And he might just fall ill, die, and never trouble me again.

"_Hello?" A lamp's yellow glare interfered with the cold moonlight that was more to the prisoner's tastes. "Are you- are you still there? Are you well?" A woman, perhaps about forty years of age stepped forward from behind a Gypsy tent. Erik hurriedly refastened his pants. His eyes narrowed in the brightness._

"_How can you be so unsure that a man in a cage is well? A man in a cage is most definitely unwell, thank you very much." Mme. Giry squinted past the thick, rusty bars and frowned._

"_You have an odd sense of humor for one in such mean estate."_

"_One must have a sense of humor at all times," the undernourished body replied. "It sustains us who are not so fortunate to live on bread and water." At this, the woman pulled back her cloak to reveal the set of throwing knives she'd stolen from one of the sleeping performers._

"_How would you like a feast of even more than such a luxury?"_


	2. Chapter 2: Shattered Lantern

**Chapter 2: Shattered Lantern**

Erik waited with the usual scowl on his masked face as Joseph Buquet struggled to lift a scene from _Faust_ and replace it with a newly painted canvas from _Il Guarany. _The man was indeed an upright and sober man, but his managerial and cognitive skills left something to be desired.

"M. Erik, they are here," Mme. Giry called. Several people of varying heights and nations followed behind her brisk dancer's feet. He turned, giving his red satin cape a dramatic swish and positioning his head just so that the light caught his mask. In his hand, brandished like a court summons, he held the small stack of resumes. There was no one else to hire, of course, but each had to audition…just to make things official.

Towards the back of the short line marching down the leftmost aisle, Christine shivered. She had seen the cape the moment she'd entered, and now, this 'M. Erik's' mask could be seen. It was white, but not shining porcelain like the expensive dentures the wealthy possessed. This was a bleached, dead white; as matte and forbidding as bone. It made him look rakish and quite at home in a darkened theatre. That look was having a strange, burning effect on her face and ears… She cursed her pale complexion and hoped she would blanch in fear once she was truly face to face with this impresario.

Silently, they followed Erik's simple, slow gestures and sat front and center. Unfortunately, this only made Christine blush more; she was nearest this tall, silent, dark-looking man. Was he a man at all?

Ahead of her, someone coughed. It was the Irish girl clearing her throat as Erik studied the dark-skinned, savage woman who was first in line. She spoke: "I am called Eter Candan, M. Erik."

Erik didn't so much as blink, and replied in a language Christine had never before heard. "Şu andan itibaren, ben sizin efendiniz ve öğretmenim. Sahnede alın ve bir şarkı, bu sizin seçmelere olduğunu." The woman nodded and climbed onto the wooden platform of the stage. _Oh, so he wants to see how proficient we are… _Christine tried not to gasp as Eter began a wavering, sweet ballad with no particular, repeating melody. After a minute, she turned her eyes to her soon-to-be employer.

He was standing stock still, except for his lightly flowing cloak; one might suppose him a statue. _His eyes…they shine. Why does he hide? He looks like an Egyptian god, almost. _She found it hard to concentrate on the singing while in full view of those metallic, magnetic circles. It seemed like only minutes before all the young people before her had gone to their respective dorms with the guidance of several dancers. She had only just managed to grasp their names: Marcus, Anna, and Artur.

"Next. Or have you lost your wit, Mlle. Daae?" The girl almost jumped out of her seat and blurted the first thing that came to her mind, blushing yet again.

"Your voice sounds nice when you speak French, M. Erik." Erik tried to decide whether to laugh or flirt with the delicate creature. _Is she insulting my Turkish, Gaelic, and Greek, or is she complimenting my French? _A quick glance at the last paper in his hand assisted him in deciding in what to do next. With an irritatingly wide smirk, he bowed low and asked in a playful, light tone, "Skulle damen behaga glädja öronen med en privat återgivning av hennes favoritlåt?"

"N-naturligtvis." _And his voice sounds even better in my tongue… Now, what do I sing? _Christine glanced around. Mme. Giry had gone someplace, but somehow the air in the room was more intimidating without the stoic old lady. Everything centered on the masked man now. At last, she was able to concentrate well enough to pick out a song: the last thing she had sung to her father. _For you, papa, I will look at life through a pink glass…_

…

_A resounding crack split through Christine's brain as she watched from the edge of the training base. Her papa had just been punched across the jaw, and was stumbling back with his hand to his grimy, bristly face. Tears threatened to fall from the girl's eyes, but she bit her lip and scrubbed them from her eyes. _I will not cry in front of these rough-handed bastards. I will _not_ cry…

_The drill sergeant blew a whistle and all the foot soldiers-in-training jogged inside; that is, all but Gustave Daae._

"_Papa!" He was nursing his bruised jaw, sitting in the mud. There was blood on his hand. _No… _She thanked God that she had worn trousers on this occasion and began to scale the fence. The sergeant was marching up to Gustave. "Papa, I'm coming!" She was halfway up the fence. This captured the other man's attention._

"_You are his French- vad är ordet? Ah, ja- you are his French daughter, then?" he asked in accented French. She pulled herself up to the top of the metal fence and glared down at the military man with anger that would have made a tiger hide in a rabbit hole._

"_I am more Swedish than you if this is how you treat the men who protect this nation with their lives," she answered, cold anger washing through her veins. "And if you so much as touch my papa again, you will answer to God much sooner than expected." _Hatistk avskum.

_A sadistic glint entered the man's eyes. He pulled a dart gun on Gustave, who was struggling to his feet. "Are you threatening me, wench?" She gasped, suddenly terrified for her father, and fell the rest of the way down the steel gate._

"_You will not hurt him!" She sprinted towards the two men._

"_Won't I?" _Click. _Gustave Daae crumpled, suddenly struggling for breath. In a blast of fury, Christine tackled the sergeant, kicking and clawing at his face. Speech failed her in her wrath, and for a few minutes everything was grey and the red of the man's fluids as she gouged at his neck._

_At last, he was unconscious, and Christine was lucid enough to turn back to her papa. Hot tears dissolved the droplets of blood on her cheeks as she knelt over the air-starved man. "Papa?"_

"_Ah, little angel… Sing to me?" His voice was hardly above a whisper, and his breath came in horrible, rasping hisses. So she sang. And when she was done, he croaked in her ear, eyes already closing. "You will have an Angel, Christine. I swear it."_

…

Erik watched her assume proper posture and breath, expanding her ribcage as was proper. _Well, at least she's trained._ Christine's fingers tapped a count against her thigh.

"Des yeux qui font baisier les miens…" _Good God above… She has the greatest potential of the lot of them. _He watched, and at last lowered himself into the very chair she had been sitting in. _Either she's a fantastic actress, or this song means something to her… _His hunch was confirmed. When she blinked, a quicksilver tear streaked down her left cheek.

"…Mon couer qui bat…"

The normally sharp man registered that the song had ended. "Ah…" Then his professional demeanor returned, but not before Christine glimpsed the admiration in his eyes. "You may go now. Get one of the dancers to show you to your dorm."

No sooner had he finished his sentence than an energized blonde ballerina grabbed Christine's wrist and began dragging her backstage and through various corridors. Everything smelled of soap and wax. "Hi, I'm Meg, you are an amazing singer, and here's your dorm. Bye, I've got to practice now!" And she was gone in an instant. _I didn't even get to introduce myself…_

The door creaked as she pushed it open. _How did my bag get here? I left it in the cab, didn't I? _Her bag was indeed in her new room, sitting on one of the bunks with all the innocence in the world. _Well, now that that's taken care of…_

The room was quite small, but fit two narrow beds, a simple closet, and a writing desk. Everything was either blue or dark brown, a comfortable color scheme, though dramatically different from the plain white Christine was used to. It was suited for the theatre.

"Oh, hullo. I s'pose I'm your roommate, then." The redhead from earlier approached and held out her hand in greeting. "M'name's Anna Iseal." Christine grasped the callused hand offered her and shook it, remembering courtesy through the haze of an eventful day.

"Christine Daae. Did you not pack anything when you moved here?" Anna shook her head of thick, glossy hair.

"Dun need to. I can buy what I need with this," she answered, pulling out a thick wad of banknotes. Christine's eyes widened.

"Exactly where did you say you came from?" Her new roommate only gave a conspiratorial wink and stuffed the papers back into a fold in her form-fitting black dress.

"I didn't say where I came from, now, did I lass?" She waved cheerfully and backed out of the cramped dorm. "Well, don't want t'be late for supper, do ya?" With that, she skipped down the hall, following her nose to the mess hall.

…

Dinner gave Christine a chance to become better acquainted with the people she'd be living with for the next few years, if Lady Luck smiled. The girl with the knife, Eter, was actually quite nice and kept her blade 'for opening disobedient boxes.' She was a mezzo, apparently, and had come to Paris in pursuit of her dream of singing. She had lived on the streets, paid as a bard, until an earthquake had shaken her home island half into the sea. "All good, though. That is why I am here now, the government gave me money to travel," she'd told them as all five of the rookie singers sat at a separate , pockmarked table in the large kitchens.

"I was near there too, then. I was in Athens." It was Marcus, the shy, olive-skinned youth. "I'm living with my father now. He wanted to move because he didn't like the government's corruption." He hurriedly looked back down at his thick beef stew, obviously hoping the steam would be an excuse for his reddening cheeks. The tall man finally spoke up. His voice was deep, with a harshly accented growl to it. Christine could tell it was having an effect upon Eter, who was blushing and hoping her diminished height would render her invisible.

"Governments will always be corrupt, because there are always men to lead them." Anna, bold as ever, stood and leaned over the Russian in a challenging pose.

"D'ya mind my askin' where ya got the burns from, Artur?" she purred. He ignored her and motioned for the cook to bring more bread.

…

"_Artur Glubokiy, you are a traitor to this country!" His father's screaming echoed in his ears as he was led, shoved, and jostled towards the tsar's palace. _I am not a traitor! I want to save my land! _His heart cried, pumping tears of blood as his entire being wept for the people._

_The great wooden doors opened, and the temperature difference was so great that the frost on his fur-lined coat melted in seconds. A fire was roaring towards the back of the great hall, and tsar Alexander III stood before it._

"_Get inside, revolutionary, before I execute you and undermine the tsar," the officer behind him growled. He complied, much preferring the warmth over a knife in the back._

_The doors shifted closed with a groan. Outside, the police could be heard, barring them and locking the palace with a clank of iron. For three tense, trembling minutes, nothing was heard but the crackles and hissing in the oversized hearth. At last, the great tsar moved._

"_I know who you are. The people know who you are," he said, moving to retrieve a glass lantern. Artur dared to take a step forward, wondering what this tyrannical ruler would do with a simple bit of wire and windowpane. "Therefore, you will have your life."_

"_I will, great tsar?"_

"_Yes, you will." The autocrat lit the lantern, careful not to spill the tallow, and shut the little door, securing the fire within._

"_Thank you-"_

"_You will be an example to anyone with notions of interfering with my rule."_

_Artur Nikolai Glubokiy could not duck when the fireball flew at his face in a whirl of oil and glass. It would be months before the wounds would stop their fiery torment._

…

Back in his dorm, Artur examined the scars on his face with the small mirror he'd purchased just days earlier. His sideburn was completely gone, replaced by twisted, pink flesh. His right eyelid and patches of his cheek were discolored, rough, and still smarted where the shards of glass had cut deeper than skin. _So much for his flawless Unshakeable Autocracy…_


	3. Chapter 3: A Sliding Door

**Chapter 3: A Sliding Door**

Eter knocked softly on the door she knew to be Artur's. A vivacious pink hue bloomed on her cheeks. She'd have to thank Anna for waking her up early with a sharp whistle in her slightly nicked, pierced ear. _I haven't been this nervous since…_

…

_The dark weighed down the streets of Chios, an island in the Ottoman Empire. Eter crept silently through a dank alley, listening for the sounds of other feet. Her guts churned, threatening to give up the small lunch of seasoned rice and stolen (expensive and imported) apples. The worst part about being a thief, for her, at least, was the nerves. Every time she set foot onto another property, she had to hold back the nausea or risk her life for failing her mission._

_The leader of her gang, a heavily tattooed brute named Hayvan, had sent her to rob a particular house, one just several blocks for her own. "It'll be dangerous," he'd warned through a leering grin, "and I want you to mutilate, not kill. But the little slave Eter knows what to do, and…" Hayvan had grasped her chin and tilted it up so she was forced to look into the eyeless sockets that had once served as his eyes. "My little slave lives for danger, does she not?"_

_Now, slinking around the streets, she approached the front door of the small dwelling, nose itching from the stench of defecate and rotting food. There were noises within: a younger man, an insistent cat, and a girl, hoarse and crying. Eter's intestines began to ache, threatening to be violently sick right there in the gutter. _No. I have to do this. It's not as if I'll see these people again. I'll be living with the rest of the gang soon.

_With that resolution in mind, she picked the lock on the door and burst in. The cat ran out between her feet as the girl screamed. A few bangs and rips later, the man was on the floor with Eter's knife in his chest, blood gushing steadily as his heart worked against itself. The girl scrambled for the now unblocked door, crying for help._

_The world seemed to slow down, noise ceased. Eter retrieved her knife and let it fly to wedge itself between her victim's shoulder blades. She waited and listened for a minute. The neighbors had not heard, or so it seemed. _Who have I killed on this dark night? _She kicked the body over, exposing its face to a ray of moonlight from the doorway._

No… It can't be. Is this what thieves have to do? Kill their friends?!... _Salty tears stung her eyes and fell to the dirt floor. _Then…I won't be a thief anymore. But it's too late for you, my friend…too late because of me.

_Eter fled the scene, never looking back._

…

"May I help you, G-zha Eter?" Artur looked down at the small Turk girl before him. He held the door partly closed, having forgotten his shirt and hurried to answer the door. He had to admit that she looked quite appealing in her loose cotton shift and multiple gold hoop earrings. "Is something wrong?"

Her face was quite flushed, and her hair was mussed. "Do you- I mean to say… Is there a way to wake everyone in this place at once? It is almost late, and…" She looked down at her feet, not wanting to face his crooked, ragged features. "I am anxious to start rehearsals."

Artur thought for a moment, and then ducked into his room for a minute. _A shirt is in order. She probably doesn't want to look at any male who is…vulnerable. A good, modest girl… _He pulled a simple white shirt over his head and dug through his iron-riveted trunk. _Ah, here it is._

Eter's eyebrows rose as the man again exited his room and pressed a steel whistle into her hand. "I think this will do, G-zha."

…

After a light breakfast of Welsh rarebit, Christine scanned the stage for Mme. Giry. The woman had interrupted the cast's breakfast to announce that M. Erik would be in shortly, and that a new patron had volunteered to sponsor the production of _Il Guarany_. The chorus behind her was matching pitch and warming up with various intervals. _Where is M. Erik? He didn't seem like the sort of person to be late, especially to a rehearsal._

As if in reply to her musings, Erik leapt out of the catwalks and swung down to the stage on a rope, effectively changing the scene that Buquet had been struggling with all morning. Knowing he'd caught her eye, he bowed low to Christine and approached her. "Well, that's one way of doing things, I suppose," she sniffed, trying hard not to look impressed.

"Ah, you honor me with your use of French. I thought you were born in Sweden?" Erik blinked his mismatched eyes and adjusted his cravat. _I wish he didn't have those eyes. They're quite dizzying._

"I was. Do you mind if I ask something?" He tensed. _And here comes the mask question…_

"No, not at all," he lied, keeping up the easygoing façade. _It would come eventually._

"Did you forget your toreador cape this morning?" she asked, smiling in satisfaction at how easy it was to catch him off guard. She spotted his eyelids' flicker of confusion. Then he recovered, his visible mouth plastered with an annoying smirk.

"Did you forget to comb your hair this morning?" Startled, Christine ran her fingers through her hair and found that she had indeed forgotten to comb her hair.

"Touché." The double doors at the entrance banged open, distracting the pair (and nearly everyone else) from their conversation. A short, stubbly man in an expensive handmade suit trotted forward on short legs, followed by a grumpy-looking Mme. Giry.

"…And yet you say that you cannot find those pesky managers anywhere?" The aristocrat's voice was nasal and slightly whiny. He pulled himself up onto the stage with a haughty puff. "Perhaps I should have picked a charity to sponsor instead of this lot of lazy louts."

"I assure you, M. le commanditaire; this crew will improve under my guidance." Erik narrowed his eyes at the confident way the man waddled forth and presented his many-ringed hand as if he deserved a handshake. "And I have recently recruited five promising new singers. Now, if you would be so kind as to give me your name?" He ignored the pudgy hand held out to him and instead rifled through a blocking script one of the stagehands passed to him.

The patron, slightly unnerved, cleared his throat and said, "I am M. le Baron de Castelot. I believe one of your crew is to marry my half-brother, should I receive what I want from this place."

"You are very presumptuous, M. le Baron, if you think I will comply with your every demand." He handed the blocking script to Mme. Giry and stepped off the stage. "I will be in my office, should you continue your failing campaign." Christine blinked, and Erik was gone. Mme. Giry sighed and hurried out into the halls, towards the manager's office. The short baron gasped indignantly and strutted out after the ballet instructor.

"Well," Anna commented from somewhere up in the catwalks, "'ere's t'the start of a great relationship wi' our new patron, M. le Fussy."

…

Erik poured himself a glass of sherry and sipped at it, feeling the alcohol burn down to his gut. _Castelot is mad if he thinks he can run this place better than I can. Merde! He probably doesn't know even know what an arpeggio is!_

The door opened, and the composer didn't bother to look up. He already knew who it was.

"I have an interesting offer for you, M. Erik." The baron closed the door behind him. "The government is in need of an engineer, and as of yet, no one has even come in for an interview. You would be paid double the amount a theatre rakes in during a whole season…every month." Erik scribbled a note to himself: _Send a humiliating note to La Surete about M. le Baron de Castelot's opium addiction._

"I have told you that your campaign is failing. You should have paid more attention." A sinister chuckle escaped his thin mouth. His mask flashed like a glimpse of his skull. "I am a man of music, M. le Baron. I make art, not war." He stood to his full height (which was about twice Castelot's height of three feet and one inch) and roughly ushered the noble out of the office. "Do not come back here if you wish to save your reputation. I have a great deal of unflattering truth to release to the press about you."

…

Christine watched from the wings with Anna as Eter contemplated the whistle Artur had given her. "Do you think he'll warm up to her eventually?" Anna took a swig from a bottle of something rather pungent.

"'Course. They're destined."

"I don't know… He just seems so… closed. Wouldn't Marcus be a better match for her? He's quite nice to her, as far as I can tell." Christine ran her fingers through her newly combed hair. It was already tangling with a mind of its own.

"Ifreann aon! Heck no, lass! Are yeh mad? She threatened to slit 'is throat before breakfast for takin' the croissant she conquered!" The brunette giggled, finding for the first time that feminine gossip could be fun.

They watched as Artur approached Eter and sat with her on the edge of the stage. "Hm. I think you're right, Anna. He seems fond of her already."

…

_Anna watched the clouds shift in the sky from the roof patio of her rich father's estate. From here, she could pretend she was flying, that she was a songbird for the world to hear. She could fantasize that her father was not in jail for his part in the No Rent Manifesto, and that she was free of the politics involved with being a relative of those in power._

"_Ms. Anna?"_

"_What's it now, Letty?" she sighed, "It'd better be somethin' important." Letty cleared her throat._

"_Your father died this morning. They executed him." Anna could hear the servant girl choking on her tears. "His last wish was for you to move somewhere else- so- so his enemies wouldn't get you, too." _So 'e's dead. And he finally cares enough t'send 'is bastard girl 'way. _She squinted out over the rolling green hills and sparse brush. _No need t'pretend he ever loved me. I'd've left his family anyway. _She turned and strode back inside, red hair blowing about her face in the breeze._

"_Ms. Anna? What are you doing?" Letty's young, undocumented mistress glanced behind her at the familiar, forbidding land._

"_I'm goin' t'pack my bags for Paris, o'course."_

…

Mme. Giry trod home through a finely sprinkled first autumn snow. Since she was of higher status in the theatre, she could afford her own house. She unlocked the creaky door and hung up her coat, reveling in the comparative warmth of the indoors. _The cold is in my bones, _she thought to herself, _and it frosts my old joints over._

She struck a match and lit a fire in the small potbellied stove that had come with the house when she'd purchased it. In a few minutes, her small kitchen was warm and lit with small but effective lamps. Her slightly stiff fingers decided to warm themselves with a bit of knitting- the current project was a baby's sweater, something for Meg if she ever decided to marry. _Hopefully that problem will soon be solved. Theatre life could ruin her, and that must not happen…_

A knock sounded at the door. Giry reluctantly stood and set aside the knitting to answer. "Who is it?"

"It is M. le Baron. Would you please open this rotten door previous to my contraction of hypothermia? I have an offer for you." She slid back a small panel so she could gaze condescendingly into the midget's eyes.

"And what if I don't open this door? I'm sure I'd be doing the world a service if I left you to freeze."

"Because your daughter will marry my relative if you accept my offer."

"Speak your piece," Giry ordered coldly.

"I will have your daughter at the head of her own household if you help me capture M. Erik for the government. And I know you are in need of managers; I found Moncharmin and Richard working for a cobbler this afternoon. Would it interest you to have them back?" The stern lady pretended to think for a minute.

"Well, let me recount their services… No, I don't think they're worth having back. Good evening, M. le Baron. I hope you catch your death in the cold." On that frigid last word, she slammed the peephole shut again and retired for the evening.


	4. Chapter 4: Fishing Net

**Chapter 4: Fishing Net**

_Gustave Daae did not resist as the king's guard pushed him into the waiting train, mostly because if he so much as twitched, the guards would pepper him with lead pellets. Two accompanied him into the car, jostling him when he tried to rest his aching feet. He listened carefully and heard the rest of the guard boarding the neighboring train car. _Ah, little angel… It is good that you will not see your old father like this.

_The sergeant had drugged him, and he'd woken up on a stretcher fast approaching the train station. Christine had been nowhere to be found. _She is alive. She must be.

"_He has to be taken to Paris. Your job is to protect him. Make sure the trade goes safely." Words leaked in through the cracks in the metal._

"_And what if they just keep the money, sir?"_

"_Drop him and run. Simple."_

_The train began to click and groan under the strain of some heavy burden. At last, it accelerated, throwing the old man against numerous boxes and bags. The corner of a crate jostled and made a jolt of pain fire up his elbow. He looked to the guards for help. They were sitting, frustratingly complacent, on small crates, sabers sheathed. His cry of pain did nothing to faze them._

"_Shut up, old man. You are cargo, nothing more, and you will behave as such."_

…

Erik frowned. The great cave he lived in was cold and dark, but it was not so forbidding that six people could not bear the short trek for a rehearsal. _They should be here by now. Mme. Giry knows where all the traps are, doesn't she?_

Actually, the stars-to-be were busy disarming the many tripwires, trigger hairs, and projectile catapults along their way. Mme. Giry held up her hand for them all to halt. They did; no one wanted to be skewered by a falling stalactite. Marcus looked around, anxious for the hazardous journey to end.

"Are we there yet?" The madam held out a hand for Eter's knife, and when it was slapped into her palm, cut a spider-silk thin wire dangling just at eye level, squinting in the dim light of the lantern that the big Russian Artur had refused to hold. However, why he had refused to hold it was still an unanswered question. He had seemed rather afraid of it…

'Antoinette's' brittle, dry voice echoed around the hard surfaces of the cave, and revealed a vast expanse invisible to the small group. "Almost."

She didn't flinch when a rumbling in the distance sent a cloud of dust and splinters their way. If the wire had been pulled the wrong way, their next death would have been in a tomb of rock. Marcus let out a sigh of relief- and jumped about a foot in the air when Anna pinched his shoulders with a loud, ghoulish cry. "Eeyah! D-don't do that!"

Mme. Giry stopped up any reply the Irish woman may have had. "We're here. Christine, hold up the light."

Christine, who had been frightened into silence at the sight of all the (genius) snares a few minutes into the journey, lifted the small fire high above her head and gasped.

The ceiling was covered in glistening, glittering bits of stone, washed over with a rainbow of colors. A deep sapphire pool of water lay still just an inch from her feet. In the middle of the lake, an ancient column jutted up and joined with the roof. It was carved, she realized with wide eyes, into a four-story house- two rooms per floor.

"Look," Marcus said, pointing, "M. Erik's coming." And he was indeed coming, swimming towards the shore and pulling a large boat behind him. Mme. Giry looked on, quite unimpressed.

"Erik, why not simply row?" He looked past her at Christine and winked as he climbed out onto the stone floor. His white shirt was clinging to his slim, wiry frame, and his black hair had flopped over to cling to his mask. The young soprano blushed and looked at her slipper-clad feet.

"The siren will take us back," he explained rather cryptically. Then his voice turned sour and annoyed. "Now, Mme. Giry, would you care to explain why you took the dangerous route and disarmed all the traps along the way?"

"Because M. Glubokiy cannot fit through a thin mirror as you can. He is not exactly as bony as you are."

"I am not bony. I simply eat less than most people."

"Pardon my tactlessness, but the last time you ate was last Saturday at exactly five in the afternoon." She turned and marched herself back up the tunnel. Erik held out his hand to Christine, taking note of her raised eyebrows and still-pink cheeks. _Perhaps she can be seduced, and- no. Her voice is far too good to be banished for an affair and pregnancy._

"After you, mademoiselle." Christine accepted his help and wondered briefly where her mask of indifference had gone. Then she stepped into the carved, varnished boat and let the issue slip from her mind.

…

"Charles, stop it!" Meg giggled as her secret lover tickled her sides, making her fall into his arms. "Do you want someone to hear us out here?" He only tossed his mousy brown hair in disregard. They were, after all, outside at the hidden back of the opera house, hidden from view by a maze of old crates and set pieces.

"Who cares? I'm in love with you and I'm not ashamed of it. And besides," he said, smiling warmly, "your mother is bound to find out eventually." He ran his fingers through her sleek, light hair, admiring the way it flashed like gold in the chilled light of a cloudy morning.

In a fit of playfulness, Meg dashed away from him and around the corner, laughing again as she heard him follow, and then…silence.

"Charles?" The click of a hammer on a pistol silenced her. Cold steel pressed over so gently into her temple; she froze, terrified and subconsciously hoping this attacker would think her dead. A voice hissed in her ear as Charles was dragged out from behind a group of old tables and sheets. He was struggling against two men in black military uniforms.

"Come with us, and he won't get hurt. And if he opens his mouth after this…" Meg whimpered weakly as a second gun was shoved up under the young man's chin. If it was shot, his brains would be as good as detonated. Charles jolted one arm out of the hold of the thugs and elbowed one hard in the stomach.

"Don't, Meg! Just let me go and get out of here!" The winded soldier's companion locked Charles' arm behind his back and forced him to his knees.

"The boss just said for us to take a captive. Let's just get him." Meg began to tremble. The gun was still pointed at her lover's head, and she couldn't move without being shot herself. The hissing voice behind her drew unbearably close. It radiated cold and hate.

"Never mind, then. We'll take them both."

…

Erik had gone over the basic parts for _Il Guarany_, and cast each of his students in their proper roles. Perhaps they could tell that Christine was the best- they had immediately recommended she sing the lead.

"You do realize, then, that you are giving someone you barely know the best part in the show?" Marcus, who'd given the most reasons why Christine should be the lead, answered for his companions.

"We know. It's not as if anyone else could sing that part anyway." Erik eyed the lot for a moment, and then looked at the new soprano. Her eyes were on the ground again, and her hair fell around her shoulders in such a way that she looked smaller and younger than she already was. _As good as she is she is not quite up to playing the lead…yet._

"Well, then, the rest of you can go for now. I have a concerto to complete."

All five of the trainees headed for his custom-made front door. "Except you, Christine; you have more to do if you are to play the lead."

"But it's time for lunch, and-"

_As amusing as he is up above, he is incredibly impatient down here…_

"Then you'll spend lunch with me. I will not have my lead develop a third-rate voice wasting her time on meaningless social activities." He sat down at an upright piano and reorganized the score so that Christine's part was in the front.

"I am going to eat first." Erik looked up again and saw that she was heading down the steep staircase towards the kitchen. "Just because you will not eat does not mean that I will be like you and work on an empty stomach." _Is she arguing with me? Is she perhaps complimenting my work habits? Well, maybe her basic needs come first- she is not half-dead and ugly. She is alive and… Don't let her get to your head, Erik. You are her teacher, and you have a theatre to run. You have no time to waste on daydreams._

"There isn't much in the pantry, Christine. The last time I raided the kitchens was about a month ago." He followed her down and was greeted with the sight of the impudent, stubborn little girl filling a pot with water and lighting the stove. "Soup?" She confirmed his suspicions as she pulled an old, dry bone from the cupboards and dropped it into the water.

"Soup. By the way, what kind of bone was that?"

"It was a lamb femur, brought to me by a dear, kind old friend," he answered, painting a thick layer of sarcasm over the words. She raised an eyebrow, trying not to laugh as she chopped carrots (preserved by the icy temperature of Erik's stone house) into the warming broth. Damn! How in the world did she break down his guard so easily?!

"And who, pray tell, was that 'dear, kind old friend'?" The man's eyes fell, suddenly, and he looked away. The playful tone he usually used with her drained from his voice.

"A friend who will not be back in a long while."

…

"The next time you take a captive, I expect you to find one at least decently close to the target, Castelot," the hard voice pacing in the shadows admonished. Though the rebuke was gentle, the baron shivered in his kneeling position. His pudgy hands were shaking as he clenched them against his legs. "Not some frightened kitten of a ballerina or a worthless, orphaned stage boy."

The voice was hard and cold like steel, sculpted to cut into minds and infuse them with fear. "I- I will do better next time, your Highness."

"No, on second thought, you will not do better because there will not be a next time." Philippe, duc d'Orleans and son of Louis Philippe, Comte de Paris, stepped out from behind an expensive ebony desk and straightened the gun holster under his suit jacket. "You are dismissed, Baron."

The fat nobleman didn't need a second excuse- he hurried out of the mock office and down into the munitions warehouse towards his carriage. _That man is not a man. He is not human!_ Irrationally afraid for his life, Castelot stumbled into his seat and only dared look back once he was safely five blocks away.

Duke Philippe smiled to himself. _One step at a time, Philippe. First the city, then France, and then…a munitions monopoly over all Europe. It only takes twisting of the right arms. And the first step to the city is the genius under the theatre. Yes, I think I will pay a visit to the theatre very soon._

…

_Marcus pulled in his net, hoping, praying for just the one fish to take home and eat that night. There were no wet flops or cries of delight from his younger brother. At last, he gazed at the pastel sunset and pinned the net to the side of his sailboat to sort through the flotsam he'd snared and see if any of it was edible. A few shrimp, bits of seaweed, detritus from the mainland… He smiled his genteel smile and stepped on the head of a wriggling eel. This wormy creature would have to do for the night._

_Anatoly Ischyros, the five-year-old brother he guarded, crouched over his own catch for the day: three minnows and a sea snail, guarding them as if they were gold. "Marcus, did the big boats take all the fish away again?"_

"_Yes, they did." He turned his back and picked up the eel, gutting and cleaning it with an old fish knife. The innards would have to be saved for bait or stew; the orphaned brothers could afford to waste nothing._

"_No, go away, seagulls!" Marcus turned around again to see his brother at the prow, batting at several large, white birds. His feet were dangerously close to the slightly rotten edge of the boat._

"_Anatoly, get back!" He lunged for the little boy, scattering the fowl. Then the younger brother tripped. Marcus dived into the tepid water, swimming after his sinking relative. If it had been lighter, he could have seen him with more clarity in the saline fluid. If the young fisherman had been a stronger swimmer, he could have snagged the child's limbs and borne him back to the surface._

_But it was darkening out, and the sea began to roughen under the lash of a blustering wind. And he was not a strong swimmer- the pressure grew too great, and he was forced to rise again for oxygen. If another boat had been out, its captain would have seen the young man climbing back into his boat, tears mingling with the sea._

_There was not another boat out, however. If you cry, and are not heard above the weeping of a storm, are you still crying?_


	5. Chapter 5: The Other Mask

**Chapter 5: The Other Mask**

"Attention everyone! Mme. Giry will not be here today; she is away on family business." A murmur of discontent rippled across the crew assembled in the house seats. Madame was quite strict, but without her, everything would fall apart. This was the first time she'd been absent in fifteen years…

"In addition," Moncharmin announced, shuffling a stack of papers, "I must announce that management will be turned over to Mme. Giry once she returns, as M. Richard and I are retiring." Another whisper echoed in the auditorium. Retiring after just a year? Unthinkable!

Erik watched from his seat in the rafters and lights above the stage. At long last, freedom from those useless, lazy simpletons! He chuckled, but remembered that his students, and more importantly, Christine, would be unable to navigate the labyrinth down to his home without the ballet mistress leading them. _I suppose I shall have to find them and escort them._

He scanned the group below for the singers as the meeting adjourned and the crews began to disperse. Eter was standing close to Artur, whispering something into his ear while he crouched down in an effort to reach her level. It was rather amusing, really; other men were so foolish, falling headfirst into love without thinking they'd even stumbled. And the two weren't even close to the suitable size for each other…

He swiveled his head to search the other dark corners and spotted Marcus talking to Christine about something serious. Suddenly, she smiled, amused by something the timid Greek boy had said. For some reason this irked Erik, but he ignored the twinge of irritation and narrowed his focus to one area at a time. It was in this manner that he at last found Anna putting her feet up in Box 6 (dangerously close to Box 5), taking swigs from one of his expensive, limited edition bottles of vodka. His eyes widened, and his fingertips, though covered by gloves, grew cold and tense as his hands curled into fists. _I should poison her for thievery._

_ No, you shouldn't_, his more reasonable side argued. _You'll regret it a few seasons from now when you have need of a contralto._ Anna smirked as she glimpsed her teacher and raised the bottle in a toast. He read her lips and sneered, projecting his voice across the empty space to her. "No, Mlle. Iseal, you'll pay for my vodka with hard work and unwavering attention, not to mention abstinence from your kleptomaniac and alcoholic tendencies."

Anna jumped and almost dropped the fragile bottle as she dove for cover behind the nearest seat. _Have I suddenly lost the ability to hold my liquor? _Then she peeked over the rim of the chair and growled low in her throat. _Bholgchainteoir… _She turned to leave the box, but took a long draught of the fiery liquid just to taunt M. Erik. _Ha! Agus tú ag dul sé ró-!_

…

Just as the next dawn touched the sky of the frosty morn, Mme. Giry returned to the dorm she'd used so many years ago, and slid back a panel in her wall to trudge down to Erik's lair. It was dark, but the lack of light mattered not. She knew the way by heart and had only to feel along the walls for the directing arrows etched painstakingly into the stone. Cold whispers drifted past the loose wisps of grey hair that had escaped her normally immaculate ballet bun. At last, when she reached Erik's door, she did not knock; he already knew she was there.

He opened the door for her. "Antoinette…what's happened to bring you here so early and in such a state of…disrepair?" he asked, wording his question carefully. She sighed heavily and leaned against the doorframe. This caused a jolt of surprise on Erik's part; he had not seen her lean on anything since the night of his rescue, which happened to be five years previous. "No, never mind that. Just come in."

Giry let herself be led almost roughly by the arm, tolerating his grip because she understood his worry better than even he did. "Meg's gone missing."

"How do you mean?" The multitalented composer had set a kettle over a newly lit fire and was now digging through an old trunk for some warm rugs for his friend's shivering, damp form. It was unlike him to be concerned over anyone's physical needs, he knew, but he wasn't about to let his messenger die of pneumonia or some abomination like strep throat…that, and he owed her his life. "Has she run off with one of her many suitors?"

Madame's voice was raw and pained from the tears she'd shed earlier. "No. I went to the police. There was a struggle, and both she and whoever she was with were taken…but they can't follow the trail on pavement, not after so many hours."

"Did they use the hounds?" Erik watched as the woman settled into a threadbare armchair and rested her head in her hand.

"They did, and the blasted bitches lost the scent." She was unhinged. Normally, she would've made her girls gargle soap and saltwater for such abrasive language. _I know loneliness, but loss must be worse. It splits its victims down the middle and shatters them if they have lost what they love most. _He shuddered. Loss was one of the things he could do without, despite the fact that most other humans experienced it. "And now the managers decide to turn their work over to me… Hardly a difference, except now I'm supposed to pay you."

"But you won't." Erik at last found a blanket and tossed it at the tired woman, who intercepted it and gratefully clenched it about her body. She gave a dry, almost hoarse chuckle.

"Correct. I won't. You can pay for everything with the money you've gotten from every which country and crime." The corners if his mouth twitched upwards a bit. It cheered him to know that his ally would always stay rigidly principled. It made up for his twisted ideology of revenge and death penalties. In fact, she reminded him of the Daroga…

…

_He was said to be possessed by a Jinni. After all, how could he be so adept at killing? How else to explain the rages that shook him far beyond the limits of ordinary teenage rebellion? And what else could explain the unearthly, horribly, angrily expressive music he produced with any instrument? No one had seen him in the flesh before; he stole the night and wove it into a cloak when he pleased, and flew on the wind with his wings of black magic. But Nadir Khan had no say in the boy's moods, and frankly, he wasn't sure what caused them. In addition to this, he had other matters on his mind. The veteran Janissary before him did not seem to understand that the loss of his eyes would impair him in battle and be an obstacle to his comrades._

_ "I can still fight! I am as good as any other soldier, Daroga!" Hayvan's cries did nothing to move his superior officer. "I need the money for my family!"_

_ "You are a mercenary, and you could not have enlisted if you had a family. Now, though, you can have one because you are officially released from service." He watched with pity as the man before him stumbled forward, disoriented by the loss of sight. "You will have compensation, if it pleases you."_

_ The sightless, broken former assassin clenched his fists in frustration. "I don't want any more money. I want someone to look at me without pity and I want my life back!"_

_ In the shadows, Erik flinched inside. _Pity? Hayvan, you cannot avoid pity when people think themselves above you. _He had personally trained this man, from a distance, of course, directed his every movement until he was a perfect killer. He knew his elite team's every strength, weakness, preference and reaction to danger. He could send them on the most impossible assignments, and they would return successful every time. Hayvan was responsible for these victories. Nadir was dense enough to believe that Erik could simply recruit another man and train him in time for the sultan's next request._

_ "You are dismissed, Hayvan. I will send the money to you in a week's time." The veteran howled with rage, helpless as the place guards dragged him out. Nadir only sighed- and found Erik's dagger a hair's breadth away from the major arteries in his clavicle. His breath was coming in soft hisses; his mask was almost out of place over the contortions of rage on his face._

_ "What have you done?! He was my best man and you fired him for nothing!" The knife pressed gently into Nadir's skin. One thoughtless move and he would find himself mopping the marble floors with his own blood._

_ "Erik… He has been blinded. Surely that disqualifies him and negates his value as a soldier?" He did his best to hide the tremble in his voice. This genius child would take advantage of any perceptible fear._

_ "It does not! Blindness is never an excuse to get rid of one of the world's most skilled assassins!" Erik growled, fingers tightening around the weapon. Nadir threw one last, desperate fact at Erik's visage._

_ "Erik, look out the window. Look who is with him." When he dared command anything of Erik, it was usually serious. So he strode with his silent feet over to the large, partially frosted portal to the outside and gazed out at his trainee. The man was sitting on the white steps with a young girl of about twelve years of age. She was sharpening a long, curved blade and practicing holding it between her teeth as he gestured and spoke seriously. The masked man's eyes widened a bit behind the leather cover as he witnessed Hayvan touching the little girl's hands and showing her a knife hold that he'd learned from Erik._

_ She had ink for hair._

...

Erik left Mme. Giry to her somewhat fitful nap and made his way back to the world above. She would recover eventually, and if he had his way, he would return her daughter to her. He intensely hated that new look of despair at the corners of her eyes.

_It looks as if I will have to commence lessons in the orchestra pit, or some other unsuitable place for today. _A stagehand in dirty, grease-stained clothes tugged the pulleys and lifted the red curtain. A few others, mostly young men, were flirting and laughing with the ballerinas, who'd decided that Mme. Giry's long absence could be interpreted as 'playtime.' One of the boys, much to his distaste, was in the process of boldly approaching Christine. She glanced at him once and then looked down again. Something was troubling her.

Erik watched as the boy proceeded to use a joke to strike up a conversation. It fell flat, and he walked away, bored. Immediately, Erik's hackles rose. _If that unsavory individual cared anything for Mlle. Daae, he would've inquired as to what was wrong…and what still is wrong. _The girl kept her head down, hands folded. Today those smooth, white hands were enfolded in the black veils of a costume from Swan Lake: a dress of black satin, black lace, and only a matte, velvety torso. _Who is she mourning for?_

Sighing, Christine turned away and walked back to her dormitory. It was silly to think that anyone would offer their sympathies when she hadn't told anyone the cause of her sadness. Anna hadn't said anything about her peculiar dress, probably because Anna always dressed in black.

She stepped into her room and held back a startled cry. M. Erik was sitting at the desk, looking as if he'd been waiting for her. She briefly noticed that the first button of his shirt was undone and he didn't have a waistcoat or cravat, then worked up the nerve to ask, "May I help you, M. Erik?" Her heart skipped a beat as she waited for his answer.

"On whose account are you in mourning?" She saw the honest curiosity in his eyes, not needing to look at his mouth for his expressions. Erik, on the other hand, assessed her appearance with something akin to masked surprise. She had even donned the hard, black mask of the Black Swan, with its intricate embroidery and crystal beading. _Why wear a mask when she is pleasing to look upon?"_

Her soft, tremulous reply distracted him from her odd (but pleasing) accessory. "Min pappa… It's his birthday today." A tear trailed down the mask, looking almost like one of the finely crafted beads. Erik stood and wondered if his own father had ever missed him. His fingers toyed with the tip of a long-dry fountain pen.

"I have never known the loss of a loved one…but I am sorry for yours." Christine looked up. She hadn't expected any comfort. They hardly knew each other, for God's sake! But suddenly she was holding him around the torso and pressing her forehead to his chest, crying aloud for the first time that day.

Erik was beyond shocked at the sudden gesture. The sensation of Christine's hands grasping the back of his shirt, of her warm, slender arms almost paralyzed him. Eventually, he remembered to breathe and decided he quite liked the feeling. Her shoulders trembled as she sobbed, so he slowly put his hands over them and did what he had sometimes seen Mme. Giry do to her Meg when she cried. He ran his cool, gloved hands through her hair and hummed softly.

Slowly, she calmed, going from a small child back to a young woman as she recalled exactly who she was hugging so desperately. The impromptu, wordless lullaby faded away, and the cold leather loosely twined in her hair trailed back to her shoulders and down to her wrists. "I… I'm sorry, I just…" She took a breath, dreading the unavoidable flush in her eyes and cheeks. "Thank you, M. Erik," she said, locking her fingers with his for a moment. "And…I apologize for your shirt."

He sighed at the softness of her grip on his gloved hands. It took him an extra second to register that she had expressed concern over his now wet cotton dress shirt. "It's quite alright, _cher,_" he assured her, voice softening from sharp and commanding to a wisp of awe.

It took another second for him to realize that he had used a term of endearment for the first time in his life. He gazed back at her, marveling at the icy lines mingled with sky blue in her red-rimmed eyes. _And I thought tears couldn't be beautiful…_ He checked himself suddenly. He was slipping, and she was the cause. _If I am not careful, Christine could be pregnant in the streets before long._

Thankfully, he did not have to break the contact (and he didn't think he had the will to), but another dilemma came up.

"Eter? Where are you?" The door swung open and Artur raised his eyebrows. Christine again had her arms around Erik's waist and was dressed in what appeared to be an overly lacy costume… "Please excuse me, M. Erik. I did not mean to intrude on your…" His ears burned as he chose his last word. "…privacy."

The door closed again and the girl hurriedly released her hold on Erik, much to his regret. If her cheeks had been tinted before, they were now blooms of fire. "M-my apologies again, E- I mean, M. Erik, I shall have to explain to Artur that it wasn't what he thought!" Then she rushed out of the room in pursuit of the confused bass and some thicker powder from the makeup crew.

Erik tipped his head to the side. _What could possibly cause a female to vacillate so rapidly between emotions?_

Hidden in the cramped, muffled wardrobe, an individual in dirty working clothes watched through a crack of light. It paid extremely well to be a spy…


	6. Chapter 6: Tai Chi

**Chapter 6: Tai Chi**

Philippe of Orleans climbed out of his carriage feeling slightly nauseous from his chronic motion sickness. Such a troublesome ailment it was. It had prevented him from serving in the navy and seemed to be worse than ever in a luxury carriage. He decided, as he held his softened hands to his churning gut that he would ride by himself the next time he wanted to visit the opera.

He stood tall for a moment to stretch his six feet and five inches, and straightened his jacket's lapels. Then he strode confidently up the stone stairs, head held high; for a royal, confidence was the best tool in persuasion.

Mme. Giry was already waiting at the door, thin and straight as curtain rod. She seemed unaffected by the cold, clad in only a thin linen dress and a shawl. There was a speck of frost caught in her hair. Philippe waited a second as she pressed her lips together, obviously disliking his presence. "Well, I suppose I must let you in." The duke allowed himself an inward smirk of triumph, but stopped his overconfidence. _Perhaps it's better to be prepared for the worst that to expect the best._

"Then, Madame," he said, taking note of her wedding ring, "would you please let me in? I wish to speak with the manager about a possible patronage."

"I am the manager. You can say what you wish in public or not at all." He tried a different approach.

"Madame, are you well? You seem disturbed." Mme. Giry's breath hitched. She had not told anyone that Meg was missing besides Erik. She paused to recompose herself.

"My daughter has been reported missing, but I do not think you would be interested in such a _commonplace_ affair," she sniffed, refusing to let the stinging in her eyes control her actions. "We will discuss your errand inside. Come."

_Interesting…_ He pushed the door open and gestured elegantly for the woman to enter the foyer before him. "After you."

…

Marcus watched silently as he waited for M. Erik to fetch him and the other singers to his cave for another rigorous lesson. It had been rough, the last time; he had pushed himself to extend his range and hit every note in the various exercises.

Now, his eyes followed not the musical phrases on a scrap of parchment, but the tall, well-built and well-dressed man walking purposefully down towards the stage. _There is something off about him… He is prideful. _Marcus had always prided himself on his intuition, and to date, it had never been wrong. _At least he looks like he knows what he's doing…but what he is doing may not be good._

"Ach, some new patron. Honestly, at th'speed they come in, you'd think they'd never been t'the opera before!" Perhaps his intuition went haywire around Anna. He hadn't even heard her behind him until she spoke.

"Please stop standing behind me unannounced, _Iseal_." His dark hair was pinched between his neck and Anna's arm as she threw it around his shoulders.

"All'n good fun, lad!" She sipped at a glass of tawny wine, savoring the liquid as if it was what she lived and breathed on. "Or should I say, _Ischyros_?"

"Is that M. Erik's wine?" He gingerly lifted the woman's arm from about his shoulders and eyed the glass. A devilish grin swept her features upwards.

"It is. And this's M. Erik's pocket watch- one o'them, anyway," she said, dangling the gold and glass timekeeper back and forth before his eyes. Marcus frowned, unsure of whether to comment on the fact that the maestro had many watches or to ask if Anna had ever been a professional pickpocket. Christine decided at that moment to interrupt his thoughts.

"Marcus, do you think M. Erik cares how we dress to lessons?" He scrutinized the outfit his fellow cast member had chosen for the day and shrugged.

"He probably expects us to dress comfortably and with more decency than some of the ballerinas." The dress she'd picked was forest green, and cut low across her shoulders for a more feminine look. It was something one might wear to a casual dinner party with close friends- respectable, but beautiful as well. "You might prefer a shawl over that, though. If it were any colder down in his house, it would snow!"

Erik chose that moment to appear out of one of the trap doors on the stage. No one saw him because he did not want them to be seen. He sat towards a corner and listened carefully; Christine's soft laughter directed his gaze, and he watched, fascinated, as she smiled. She was hiding her sadness, he could tell by the way her eyes flicked back and forth from empty space to her companions…but her smiles were exquisite all the same.

_Since when do I watch from a distance? _Mme. Giry approached him, her mouth set in a straight line.

"There's another noble vying for a patronage." He looked across the auditorium. He would have replied with something sarcastic, but the ballet mistress was obviously not in the mood. She still seemed fragile from the hopefully temporary loss of her daughter.

"Is he going to interfere with my designs? If so, he is not welcome here." He gazed at Christine again, increasingly intrigued by her every movement. She could almost be a dancer, with the grace she had. His brain switched to multitasking mode so he could watch her dark hair and bewitching movements. "The most I can offer him is a box or a balcony seat."

Mme. Giry sighed. "Shall I gather your students?"

…

Erik had built his own catwalks above the lake, hidden between the largest stalactites and bolted to the roof with industrial steel screws. Each connected to tunnels and shores around the lake, and provided access to emergency supplies and oxygen from aboveground.

It was on these narrow, sturdily fashioned platforms that the composer with perfect pitch walked about as he tapped the hanging, reconstituted stone around him with a small rubber mallet. "Blasted high C... Choosing the middle of a piece to break and fall into the lake," he growled to himself, cursing his shortage of proper hinges, springs, and rubber. Yes, industrialization had worked wonders for France, but he had used up all the rubber to be had in the theatre. If another hammer broke, he'd have to steal the soles of someone's shoes.

The high C key, or rather, stalactite, had indeed shattered under repeated and strenuous use; Christine probably had the greatest vocal range of any human being ever to walk the earth, and he didn't want her to be limited by his organ's fragile foundations.

At last, he struck the right rock. A pure, ringing, tone sounded when he tested it. Satisfied, he attached a mechanism to the protrusion of the cave and fastened all the signal wires and gears and made the trek back down to his icy cold home. The wire he held in his gloved hand stretched far- almost thirty meters- to pull the hammer that hit the stone when he so wished.

The entirety of his abode was a musical instrument.

It was probably late now. Lessons had ended a hours ago, just before dinnertime, and since then Erik had done nothing but search for the perfect note to add to the vehicle of his masterpieces… Now where the hell was his pocket watch?! He'd had it just the day before…

…

Artur did not share a room with Marcus. There simply wasn't enough room for both of them, despite the fact that the 'little Greek man' was indeed very little and took up very little space.

That matter aside, Artur turned his mind to the other little person who'd captured his attentions since his arrival: Eter Candan. The ordinary Russian women were good for nothing except perhaps bearing children and doing chores. The French girls, as far as he could tell, were worse: completely frivolous and unable to do anything but scream and demand that the men do all the work. Perhaps he was a strange man for wanting a woman who was as tough and stubborn as he was.

Eter made him feel like he fit in in this world of thin, short people (even though she herself was thin and short) and skittish women. He did not know much about her, but that would change soon. They had shared ideas in the few days they'd had together, mostly about knife fights and technique. She truly had a passion for the fighting arts.

_What else does she interest herself in, besides blades? As beautiful as weapons are, there must be something she likes._

A shy knock at the door broke him from his thoughts. "Artur? May I come in?" He liked the way she said his name, although her accent was a terrible mishmash of Turkish and slowly acquired French. "I just cannot sleep without another one of your stories. I think it is that strange coffee they have here." Her slightly accelerated speech betrayed her caffeine high.

He allowed her inside his room. It was warmer than other places, probably because of his sheer size. Eter took a moment to observe the man's figure through the large, roughly hand-sewn nightclothes he had donned. _He is not like the Castelot man, not fat… Only fit._

Artur sat in a large chair in the corner and made it look like nothing more than a child's stool. His voice rumbled like mountains as he spoke. "Was there anything specific you wanted to hear?" She sat down on the bed and pulled the blanket about her shoulders.

"I want to hear the one about Baba Yaga again." The smile she gave him showed some of her perfectly sized, slightly crooked teeth. He chuckled deep in his throat, and she shivered with delight. His voice made her ticklish all over, it seemed.

"You are sure? Baba Yaga will give you nightmares." She turned a rather dark shade of pink as she said her next words.

"Your voice makes Baba Yaga sound like a lullaby." He smiled. She made him feel as if the world had disappeared and he was home again.

"As you wish." He cleared his throat as if he was going to sing, and began the tale. "Once there was an old witch who lived in a deep, dark wood…"

…

Erik pulled on his black night attire, and replaced his white mask with one of black suede. _If I were not marred, I would not have to go through the trouble of picking out suitable masks. _The one he usually wore had been carved out of the skull of a tiger, a gift from Nadir just before he'd departed the Ottoman Empire and ridden on horseback all the way to Paris.

He took a longer route to the surface, a route that led out to the back of the opera, where Meg had been abducted. _One cannot trust the police to handle a crime, especially when they refuse to follow hunches. They don't know what intuition is._

Whoever had taken Meg and her sweetheart was obviously stupid enough to take any captive and not a specific target. Most of the nobility were highly trained and certainly not opium addicts, so that left only Baron Castelot that Mme. Giry had somehow made an enemy of, probably by refusing his offer of funds for the opera…right?

…_Except he would not have committed a crime unless he was moved by someone else. _Then Erik remembered that Meg was to be engaged to Castelot's half-brother. _Therefore, he had a reason to kidnap them… And if it was not Castelot-Barbezac, one of the half-brothers must know something. Gossip travels faster through the wealthy than through the proletariat._

The opera was situated along an obvious border between the rich and the poor. One bit of town was filled with towering mansions, and the other, larger portion was cluttered by rented apartments, rickety, old stores, and wood buildings. It would not take long for one to search the entirety of the rich neighborhood. _And they make their residences quite obvious, too. Their nameplates are almost an invitation._

_Ah, I pity you, Castelot, though it should be amusing to see you quaking in fear._ With that thought repeating in his mind, Erik set off to find the house of Castelot. The interrogation would not take long.

…

Meg curled up against the cold wall. Water dripped somewhere, keeping her sleepless and exhausted. After only a day or so (or had it been a week?) in the dark, damp cell, she was exhausted and hungry. At one point, the metal door had been opened so she might receive water and some table scraps from her mute, brutish jailer, but the light from his lantern had stung her eyes. She was forced to eat blind.

There were no accommodations, really, except for a chamber pot that she had used exactly twice now, when her innards complained so that she cared not about the stench. She could not sleep, not on a hard, crooked floor with water dripping somewhere in the distance.

The darkness under her eyelids was the same as the darkness around her. It was a heavy sort of blackness, although the cell was as large as a dorm room back at the opera. Thankfully, her biological clock was still intact; it felt as though it were late at night.

_The rest of the dancers will be making up for bed, now, or chatting with their roommates. And the stage boys will be taking their rests in the wings or their hammocks in the rafters above the stage. And maybe Jammes took my advice at last and has moved to the second floor, away from her snoring roommate. _Tears began to stream down her grimy face and into her mess of hair. _And Mother will probably be up late again, worried sick about me, and those new singers are blissfully unaware…_

For some reason, this made her angry, and she uncurled and stretched almost indignantly. Her joints cracked. _They think nothing's wrong! And…maybe no one has announced the kidnapping for fear of ruining the atmosphere for that new opera, _Il Guarany_._

She stood with her face hard set, and began an oriental 'dance' routine she had learned from a Chinese guest star. It was something called 'Tai Chi.' Slowly her breathing became regular and deep, and her limbs moved automatically. Eyes became unnecessary as she became aware of the exact dimensions of her cell. _The next time that ugly guard opens the door, he is not going in. I am going out._


	7. Chapter 7: The Book of Shakespeare

**Chapter 7: The Book of Shakespeare**

Philippe took his leave of the opera when drinking with the stagehands became intolerably odorous and blurred. He had drunk twice as much as any of them, but he wasn't drunk yet…only tipsy and a little clumsier than usual.

His carriage had left hours ago on his insistence. His footman knew never to put anything past his master, least of all coming home after a night of alcohol. There was something abnormal in the way the duke seemed resistant to even self-inflicted ills.

The noble set off at a brisk pace, not wanting to miss his nightly rounds at the warehouse. His feet carried him towards the outskirts of the rich neighborhood, which was full of large buildings other than mansions- factories, storage, and black market outlets.

After about two miles, he stopped and looked up at the flat roof of one of the many cold buildings he owned, and slipped inside. His prisoners needed visiting, since the guard he'd hired was mute. _And that's a good thing, too. I cannot have that man spilling secrets if I fire him._

There were many halls and rooms in this structure, all well-lit; he had made sure of that. In some of the rooms were prisoners of various sorts: debtors, criminals, madmen, public enemies, black market dealers who had tried to cheat him…the list went on and on, but now, tagged onto the end of his mental roll call he had added one more item: opera workers.

It was through these passages he walked, boots clicking on the concrete and silencing those within the cells. The newest guests, as he preferred to call them, resided in the very back of the complex. He knew that just a little while ago, his servants had brought in two younglings from the opera, but he would wait until he had dealt with the old man. They had yet to be broken, yet to be begging for death at his feet. _And what sweet success that will be…_

He stopped at the second-to-last, heavily reinforced door on the left, which held an old man. The slip of paper on the door served as a nametag: _Gustave Daae_. Philippe grasped at his hip for the master key and unlocked the door, but did not open it. A soft shuffling could be heard inside. _Yes, he will be easy…_

At last he swung the door open. A look of surprise sagged over the wrinkles in Gustave's face, and he stumbled back. _Ah, he was expecting the guard, and his evening meal…_ The younger man's lip curled in disgust as the stench diffused out into the otherwise sterile hall. Now M. Daae's eyes watered and he scrubbed at them with hands almost caked in filth.

"Were you expecting someone else, Gustave Daae? Perhaps your lenient guard and a feast?" he asked, drawing out the words as if speaking with a small child. The man, kneeling, at last cleared his eyes and stared boldly into his captor's face and scowled. He remained silent.

"You must answer if we are to get anywhere, M. Daae." Philippe could see the confusion in Gustave's eyes as he tried to process the rapid change from patronization to respect. "I simply need you to answer a few questions, but you must answer a few questions for me. Then you can go back to whatever slum or poorhouse you came from," he reasoned, voice turning harsh and cold. Gustave coughed, proud shoulders slumping for a moment.

"I will never-" he hacked again, "-submit to some bullying, lying- agck!" His head snapped back and he fell backwards, struggling to breathe. His ragged sighs revealed the accumulation of fluids in his lungs. The thin beard on his hollow cheeks was crooked and ruffled, like that of a goat. In a last act of defiance, he flung his overflowing pot of excrement at his tormentor. The load of feces, vomit, blood, and urine spattered the duc d'Orleans' clean white shirt and smooth face.

Gustave stood and slammed the door in Philippe's face, not caring whether or not he would receive another depository for his wastes. The next few minutes were filled with loud curses, gagging, and a royal family member who stormed about, quite literally 'talking shit.'

…

Erik scaled the frosty walls of the Castelot house, gripping the old, thick ivy hard and keeping his breath muffled. He could have gone in through the front door, but the bastard child, Castelot-Barbezac, had a room in the third floor, and the effect was more dramatic when he could 'disappear' in a moment. It made for a more effective scare.

His target's balcony was slightly rusted, but stable, and the expensive sliding door had been left open, despite the cold, and a crimson and white veil of a curtain drifted in the breeze. _Perhaps the wealthy grow stifled by their stuffy attitudes_, Erik thought, smirking like a drugged cat. _At any rate, they probably have enough blubber each to warm a whale._

With a soft grunt, he pulled himself up using only his arms, and flipped over the railing to and just before the glass door. _It seems these aristocrats value looks more than their lives._

At that moment, Salim Castelot-Barbezac, the baby and favorite of his family despite his sketchy birth, was turning restlessly in his soft bed, dark hair ruffled about his thin, sickly neck. He had always been ill and weak, and tonight he was down with a fever, hence the open window/door. Back and forth he shifted, exhausted, but not sleepy. It was in this manner that he saw a dark shape rise up over the edge of his balcony and began scrambling wildly for a pistol.

"No need for that, honorable Baron. You cannot shoot a ghost." Salim finally retrieved the gun from underneath his nightstand and pointed it at the shape, which was now looming closer and closer. Now, as he breached the barriers and approached the trembling boy, Erik reconsidered his original plan of frightening a spoiled noble out of his wits. He was already afraid; any more, and the baron would shoot, miss, and be silenced…by force. And that would draw unnecessary attention to the noble family. He decided on a more appealing technique.

Salim's hands shook, and the sweat on his back began to feel cold rather than hot. "I have come for information," Erik intoned, using his best impression of a respectable businessman. "A certain young female was abducted from the opera four days ago, along with her male companion. I have need of their whereabouts." He almost grinned as the young baron's fingers lost their grip on the gun, but noticed the overly bright eyes and excessive sheen of sweat. "You are sick. If you give me the information, I have something that will make you well… You will never be weak again."

Salim's heart leapt as he spied the chance, but he grabbed at reality again and forced himself to think past the joy prematurely bubbling in his chest. "Who are you? Wh-… Why do you want to know about- about that girl?" The figure's voice hissed, turning from frank to blistering with venom.

"Fool! Because she happens to be the girl you will be engaged to!" The youth suddenly began hacking and coughing, his brain's shock translating into his lungs' malfunction. At last he croaked out a simple, frightened word.

"Meg?"

…

_Salim cringed as the loud sound effect of a false gun cracked through his skull. As of yet, the opera had been violent, heartrending, and painful to watch. The only brief respite had been an aria by a rather mediocre alto, and even then, knowing Italian, it had been quite the opposite of uplifting; it had instead been a song about the way people disappeared off the coast, into the jungles of a mysterious island._

_ At last a dance began, a scene consisting of brightly dressed tropical 'birds' and a slender, young thing with gold hair who obviously had talent. In all his fifteen years, Salim had never seen anything more beautiful._

_ After the show was over, he had greeted her in the foyer, and was about to kiss her fingertips as was proper… "Salim, bastard child, get your sluggish little body over here and try not to embarrass the family!" His half-brother, the true heir to the title 'Baron de Castelot,' waved him over._

_ The ballerina gripped his hand in surprise, earning a blush from the scrawny boy. Then he released her hand with not a little reluctance and turned to leave. "Wait!"_

_ "P-perdonatemi?" he stuttered, and wheeled himself about again to face the girl with a pout on her made-up face. He cursed his near-instinctive Italian. Of course she would not quite understand and be upset with his bilingual ability…_

_ "Whoever that creature is, he is the bastard, not you. Always remember that." Then she pecked him on the cheek and skipped away to the dorms, leaving him wondering if girls were human at all._

_ From that day on, he had worked to the best of his ability to find out everything about the young beauty, and finally persuaded his father to arrange his marriage with her once he was well enough. All would end well, provided that Meg Giry did not intend to instead marry one of her theatre-boy sweethearts._

…

It had been quite easy to extract the information. In fact, Salim, as Erik had learned his name was, gave a detailed description of the place where the duc d'Orleans kept his victims once he knew that Meg might be currently imprisoned there. It was probably not quite as satisfying as it would have been to see the fat Baron Castelot shaking and hiding under his pillow, but now a different matter weighed on his mind.

The image rendered from Salim's words was not at all convenient. This warehouse on the edge of Paris was crawling with guards and full of people who were more likely to kill anyone in their way rather than cry for thankfulness once released. In addition, every door was chained, and the walls were solid- there would be no weakness in the fortress.

"There was a damp dirtiness to the air there, last I visited," the boy had explained, "as if the insides of the cells were never cleaned, and the prisoners were forced to live in their own bodily fluids." At this point in the sentence, the young baron-to-be had shuddered. "When Philippe, my cousin, was there with me, he behaved as if he were going to the carnival instead of a dungeon. I think he is mad for building such a place. That place is black hole of death!"

_And he was not lying. _Erik stole through the dark alleys and crushed rats and muck with his quick steps. _I suppose I must call in a favor, then. Nadir will know all the right friends in all the right places. Mme. Giry must know about this. She must not have a nervous breakdown at the start of her career as the manager of my opera._

A false dawn flitted across the horizon as M. Erik took the quickest way down to his abode, where the ballet mistress had been staying since the acceptance of her new job. This fast way down happened to be through a basement window and a dusty secret panel, ending in a cloud of dust all over his memory-filled Persian rug. "Curses upon dusty street traffic…"

"Erik?" 'Antoinette' was already awake. "Back already?" Her dry sarcasm did not cover her genuine surprise. "I thought the earliest you returned was at least three o'clock."

"Well, I would have let you alone for longer, except that someone has stolen my gold pocket watch and several bottles of my best wine. I believe I know now who that person is, and I intend to receive my full reimbursement…once I can relate what I have found concerning your daughter." The lady gasped.

"What has happened? Where is she?" _Another proof of the scarring effects of loss…_ The rapid questions were launched about his ears, tinged with desperation. "I want my daughter back."

…

Christine emerged from her room feeling adequately presentable and yawned, stretching to her full height and pulling all her joints into their proper, fluid place. A minute's walk took her out to the stage, where Mme. Giry (back from her family business, it seemed) was pointing up at the flies and directing the replacement of a broken hydrogen lamp.

Her eyes flickered to the orchestra pit, where M. Erik was handing an envelope to the delivery boy. They widened when she saw a flash of gold change hands. _Is he rich or simply generous? _The composer waved the child away and faced Christine as if he'd known she was there all along. _I wonder what he was sending…_

All thought exited her mind as Erik picked up a violin and tested the strings. It was a smooth C, unbroken by any roughness that might have sounded from an ordinary musician. When he began to play, she had to close her eyes. The piece was too sweet to resist, too strong to avoid. She must've heard the tempo, pitch, key, technique, and volume, but the melody took all memory of mechanics and theory away. She was drowning and she loved it.

Finally, the last note kissed her ears and she opened her eyes, at first unable to focus on anything. Suddenly, a deep, vicious growl ripped from the wooden floor beneath her feet, causing her to flee with a yelp of terror…

…And straight into the arms of an extremely smug-looking M. Erik. "Ah, it seems that a certain Swedish woman simply cannot stay away from me," he purred, pulling her tight against his chest. Christine blushed and turned her eyes away, casting about for something, anyone to pull her out of the situation…but did she truly wish to be released? "Are you comfortable, Mlle. Daae?"

His _voice_!It was everywhere at once, enveloping her senses and overwhelming any conscious functions, including her will to escape. "I…"

"I suppose that is interpreted as 'yes' in your language?" The flustered girl in his arms never got the chance to answer (though she wouldn't have been able to anyway).

Anna entered from backstage with a martini glass full of something undoubtedly alcoholic, shared a shocked glance with the masked man, and froze. Erik stared back, absorbing the fact that the Irishwoman had not only stolen another bottle of wine (a fine white wine from Italy), but had filched with it one of his best pieces of glassware. Then Anna Iseal gulped down the glass in one shot, placed the cup on a prop stool, and ran for dear life back down the hall, yelling, "I didn' take th'watch! I want m'lawyer!"

Erik cleared his head and didn't miss a beat as he pulled himself away from Christine with a mixture of anger and indignation pulsing through him. "Excuse me mademoiselle, but I have a pickpocket to catch."

…

Ten minutes, three throwing knives and five fat banknotes later, Erik lounged on a house seat with a flute of champagne in his hand. On the chair to his left were bottles of vodka, tawny wine, and white wine, as well as two glasses (one regular and one martini), and a brand new, perfectly gauged, solid gold pocket watch with a silver face and a crystal covering. Onstage, four of his students tried their best not to snort with laughter as Mlle. Anna Iseal balanced a book on her head.

Eter was the first one to giggle and Artur kept smiling his scarred, crooked smile. Marcus was looking, for the first time during his days at the theatre, quite satisfied and even a little mischievous. Even Christine, who would normally have been sympathetic and rather shocked about Erik's punitive measures, was stifling her laughter so that Anna would not turn and drop the tome: Shakespeare: The Complete Works.

"Sing the phrase again, Mlle. Iseal." Erik popped the cork on the bottle of white wine and poured himself about half a cup; they would all be here for quite a while. Anna huffed, holding onto the book so that it would not fall as she yelled at her tutor.

"But I've bloody sung th'thin' twenty times! And I'm no' goin' to be able t'hold this-"

"Again! Do not argue with me, mademoiselle, or you will find yourself balancing another large book atop your head," Erik threatened, eyes narrowing at the redhead. At stage left, Christine lost control and started having a muffled laughing fit. Erik caught her eye and sent her a rather flirtatious look.

Anna opened her mouth, red lips thin with indignation, and proceeded to sing "Mary had a Little Lamb" for the twenty-first time that day, while standing atop an ersatz tree, holding a shepherd's crook in one arm and a fat, squirming rabbit in the other, and balancing Shakespeare on her crown.


	8. Chapter 8: Bittersweet Medicine

**Chapter 8: Bittersweet Medicine**

Erik's skin was warm to the touch and even a little damp with sweat as he faced off with his last opponent for the day, the wild, feisty girl called Eter. He had fought those who had experience: Anna (with a broken bottle) and Artur (who had attacked with great whooshing arcs of a huge, heavy sword). The practice was as much for exercise as it was for staged fights, which would be needed later in the season.

Eter was crouched low in the grass and scrub just a few feet from Erik, outside the opera. _She knows how to use that knife. I wonder where she learned such a skill…girls are not warriors in the Ottoman Empire._

The girl narrowed her eyes and kept her arms close to her body, instinctively protecting herself. She could hear- no, _sense_ Artur just a few yards away, still as a statue and with plumes of fog blooming from his mouth as he watched her. He had not been averse to the idea of her fighting, only concerned- after all, M. Erik had beaten him soundly with only a rope against his own large hand-and-a-half sword. But if the maestro had shown anything with his combat, it was absolute precision; no one was even slightly bruised from their sessions.

She knew that Erik never made the first move. That was good planning on his part, for then she would be vulnerable as soon as he knew what she was doing. He held a longer weapon than hers, tossing it from hand to hand every now and then. _Where did he learn to use a yataghan sabre? Did he learn that as well as the language when he was in my country? _She herself kept an easy grip on her straight kard, with the etched sheath tucked away at her waist.

Erik nodded at her from across the makeshift arena. "You can move, as I'm sure you know," he said, cocking his head to the side in a sarcastic smile. "Fighting is not passive aggression, it is aggression." At the end of his sentence, Eter lost her patience and leapt forward.

The man ran at her fast, blade held to the side. Christine, watching from her seat on the icy ground, was sure the two would collide. But they did not. Her jaw dropped as the people seemed to sprout wings and fly.

Eter hissed as her opponent leapt up and used her shoulders as a springboard to fly not around her, but over her. He landed on his feet just behind her. _Ah, you think you know the Turk way of fighting…but I was trained by the best. _For once in her life, she was grateful for the rough treatment Hayvan had given her. That, and the trousers she'd bartered from a stagehand.

She cut out to her side, but was blocked by the sabre. Metal range on metal, and the almost ceremonial solemnity of the first blow made them still for a moment. The wind blew through the onlookers' clothes, but they were too transfixed by the scene before them to notice the chill. Christine, specifically, watched as Erik's form moved so fluidly that he seemed to glide rather than pace.

Then all became flashing steel and sharp, sliding sound. The smaller fighter, Eter, resorted to ducking the quick slashes and dove lower, lower… _Time to 'cheat,' but all is fair in any kind of war. _As the sword came down at her head again, she dove between her adversary's legs and skidded forward, rolled, and kicked Erik in the behind just as he was about to turn.

The result was spectacular. Somewhere in the back of his head, Erik heard Anna laughing as he stumbled forward, landing over his weapon. Christine had yelped, and immediately galvanized, he formed a new plan of attack. _Ah, well, I can play that game better than you can… Christine, there is no need to be frightened. None at all. _He righted himself quickly, returning with quick cuts and several dizzying feints. If his opponent had been anyone other than the mezzo, they would have been skewered. He let his mind go blank, concentrating only on the threat and his objective: detain.

At last, after a long minute of advancing over no ground, he cut at Eter's legs, now almost desperate to gain the upper hand. She did not leap back or up as he had expected, but forward.

An image flashed through his mind, making him pause for a split second. He knew that move. It was one he had taught to his team of elite assassins. _And so, I know what comes next. But how does she know that? I never taught a girl. I would've remembered if I had. _With perfect timing, the ink-haired girl came out of her leap and aimed a straight kick at his chest. It did not make contact at all.

He sidestepped with ease. Eter landed on her feet, jarring her legs slightly. _How did he sense me coming? He can't have learned that from any ordinary Janissary. Perhaps it is time for a change in tactics… _Pretending to stand and brush herself off, she drew another knife from a sheath on her upper left arm. Now feeling much more balanced without the extra weight, she waited, listening for the telltale crunch of icy lawn. It never came.

She turned to investigate- and found the strange, mysteriously adept man an inch from her face. _No one has ever managed to approach me without my knowing…even Hayvan was noisy to my ears. This man is…a ghost. _She gulped back a gasp of fright as the sabre was whipped up to touch her dark-skinned throat.

Erik smirked, a victorious glint in his metallic eyes. "Dead."

Eter smiled sweetly in return. "Are you sure?" He looked down a saw her kard pointed at his gut. He looked up again, and her other blade was at his jugular. "Dead. Twice."

_She is quite skilled… But I am better_, Erik said to himself. _And it would not look good to lose in front of- _He straightened his thoughts as the steel at his neck brought an extra chill to his skin. _–in front of my students._

Almost faster than the eye and most definitely faster than the hand, his lasso was looped thrice about Eter's body, pinning her arms to her sides and preventing her from taking even a step. The uppermost coil squeezed with threatening gentility at the tops of her shoulders. A jerk of his hand, and he could snap her neck. "As you say, Mlle. Candan…'Dead. Twice.'"

Christine pressed her hand to her mouth as she took in the sight. Eter, who she knew to be a ferocious wildcat of a woman, was now at the mercy of M. Erik. She shivered not in the cold, but under the intensity of his eyes, even though she was not their focus. _The raw power in him… He could rule the world if he so wished. _The notion weakened her knees, but she forced herself to remain standing and suddenly wished she had a cloak to cover herself more fully.

Then Anna piped up, looking slightly unsatisfied, and said, "Alright, th'fight's over, you cn'all let go of your weaponry now." She glanced at Christine and teased, "An' you can let go'f your jaw, now, it's no' goin' t'drop." _Damn. I wanted t'see 'im beat._

Artur finally broke out of his tense, statuesque stance and walked to lay a hand on Eter's shoulder. Her head barely reached his chest. "Now I understand why Marcus chose to stay inside and help the cook with our noon meal." He placed his arm around Eter's shoulders, as if he could protect her from the cord still entangling her body. She wriggled in her bonds.

"Artur, help me with this thing…I cannot move." He knelt and picked at the lasso with large, rough hands, and lifted the bonds away, but kept his arm around her shoulders. Erik noted that she didn't seem to mind at all and coiled his weapon. _I can only hope they do not share a bed for several years. Unlike me, they seem to have no objections to such an arrangement…_

He looked at Christine, who was still tense from the thrill of the battle…or was she stiff with fear? He had to do something for her. _A tense back will ruin her breathing… It has nothing to do with my dislike of her fear, nothing at all._

Before the other three out on the opera's lawn, Christine beheld the strange, sinewy fighter as he approached her. Then he cracked a roguish grin and winked at her behind the white mask- and just as quickly as smoke dissolves into the atmosphere, he was familiar, charming M. Erik again.

"Shall we return to the warmth of the indoors, Mlle. Christine? I will not have you ruining your throat over a circus like the one you have just seen." He offered his arm, an expectant expression clouding his visible face over. The brunette relaxed and took his arm, silently noting the hard, graceful strength with which he carried himself.

"I think we shall, M. Erik. I must care for my voice on your instruction, mustn't I?" They set off for the opera's doors, thoroughly warmed by simple contact with the other and only pretending concern over the weather.

…

Mme. Giry looked through the season's master schedule and frowned. The way everything ran, she would not be able to investigate her daughter's until after the multiple performances of _Il Guarany, _nearly a two months from the immediate date. _Ah, Meg, where have you gone? Who has taken you, and why? They must pay for all my grief and all you are suffering…_

Enclosed in the warm office, with a fire crackling and murmuring quietly, she was soothed temporarily. Erik would search for her kin, and would find the girl for sure. And he would bring her back. Nothing was impossible for him, as far as this woman was concerned. She had seen him produce cobras from the mouths of children and make them dissolve into shimmering ribbons of light. No indeed, nothing was impossible for her friend and ally Erik.

Many mothers in her place would be in mourning, even on the edge of breakdown, but no, not this hard old woman. She had work to do, work that her beloved daughter would be proud of whether she yet lived or had died… _But she wouldn't want her death to go unknown, or her abduction, if the police can do nothing._ A log in the fireplace split, the coals around it sending up a myriad of bright, hot sparks. _I must announce it somehow…but not to my dancers. To someone capable._

"Mme. Giry, I have written to a…_friend_ of mine about your plight. He can help you, and he will be here in several days' time." She did not look up, for she had long since become accustomed to Erik's silent entrances.

"Don't you have five amateur singers to prepare, and a score to rewrite for their voice types?" The lady, standing tall in the middle of the room, glared at the fire as if it had stolen her Meg away. "I cannot wait for several days while a letter is delivered and this 'friend' travels to Paris from however far away, Erik."

"Meg is not in any danger. Of that I am sure."

"Right. And swine may sprout bat wings and elephants' tusks." She turned her vengeful gaze upon Erik. He did not flinch, but stepped to the side cabinet to pour the two of them drinks. "Erik, are you listening?"

"I am. But so long as she is locked up in that prison, I cannot reach her or communicate with her, much less rescue her." He handed his friend a fall spice cordial and took a gulp of his own. "Here; I know you dislike alcohol, but this will taste better than straight vodka." The masked man watched, unsurprised, as Mme. Giry tossed the liquid over the fire and set the glass back on the table.

"You were saying?"

…

Anna walked with Christine back to their shared room when dinner was over. It had been a long and rather distracting day, but a peculiar expression has washed over the redhead's face and had yet to wash out (much like the violet coloring in her hair, which she had thought was soap and now thought was a nuisance). "You're thinkin' 'bout somethin'. I can tell s'don' lie t'me.

"And you're going to have a hard time washing that dye out of your hair. Although I must admit that it looks rather charming on you." She giggled as her roommate slapped at her arm.

"Stop avoidin' th'question!" The wooden floor creaked as the two dodged about and swatted at each other in play. "I know: you're in love with someone!"

"I am not and you know it, Anna Iseal!" Christine danced through the door of her room and flopped onto the springy, generously covered bed. "I only keep my head on when I find something interesting!" The older girl tossed her large down pillow at her roommate's head, emphasizing her point.

"Some_one_, you mean!" The thin soprano sprang up in mock indignation, and launched her cushion at Anna.

"Don't tell me you're not denying something as well! You keep telling everyone that the dye was on purpose, and we both know you just didn't look at the labels!" The Irishwoman sat back on her bunk and pouted.

"You're in love with M. Erik." The playful mood in the room dissipated.

"Excuse me?" Christine almost flinched. "He flirts with me. I don't flirt back."

"Liar." Anna's mouth turned up at its left corner.

"I don't lie. And besides, what could I possibly see in him? He's our teacher, for heaven's sake!" She sat up and smoothed back her curls. "I simply don't think it's possible to fall in love in just a week or so. It's too much like a fairytale, and I know fairytales are not real." The conviction in her voice alerted Anna that she should drop the subject.

"If you insist, but I think you're goin' to find yourself thinkin' those wild tales are true very soon."

Just outside, Erik leaned against the door and let his gaze wander as he considered what he'd just heard. In their little mock spat, they hadn't noticed or heard the door close. _Is she in love with me?_ The notion was almost terrifying. Love was not something he had been subjected to, even though all the most horrendous ordeals had been given him in his time as the head assassin in the Ottoman Empire. _She denies it._

The Irish girl had seen it, and now he saw it too. He had glimpsed Christine's eyes just after he had finished the sparring session with Eter, filled with fascination and something akin to awe and almost…attraction. _It would be foolish of her to love me. And it is foolish of me to imagine she loves me. _He did his best to push the hope from his heart. _I will not be captured by nonexistent feelings._

…

Salim Castelot-Barbezac paced in his room, though his feet were sore and he was cold. He had recovered from his fever, but now he was plagued with insomnia. _If anyone has had more illnesses than I, I would like to hear from them…although someone as sickly as I am would probably have died by now._ He had closed his sliding door tonight, for the frost had become more severe in the last few days, and the maids had yet again completely sterilized his room to protect him from any germs.

A knock startled him from his reverie. The dark shape was standing on his balcony. _Should I open it to him? What if I am going mad and he is just one of my fevered imaginings?_ He remembered the payment for his information, and his chest swelled with hope and doubt. _Will he give me something to make me well again?_

"Little Castelot, stop your worrying and come outside!" the voice commanded. "Debts need paying." _That cannot be imaginary. He must have a cure. He must!_ The boy slid the glass door open and shivered, but took the needed step and felt the cold stone under his feet.

"You came back. I didn't expect you. Most people just want to take advantage of the desperate bastard child…but you came back." His eyes shone with thankfulness, and Erik found himself extremely uncomfortable with the expression. People didn't usually thank him for arriving at their houses in the middle of the night.

Erik retrieved the vial from within his cloak and placed it in Salim's hand. "I am simply returning a favor." The youth peeked at the black, sticky-looking contents and almost turned paler than he already was.

"What is it?" _Is he dense as well as weak?_

"Your medication."

"It looks toxic."

"It is toxic." The boy almost dropped the delicate container.

"What?!" The shadowy form seemed to bend slightly under the weight of an exasperated sigh.

"Science, boy. Medicine is always toxic in some way. This one is toxic to the particular kind of germ you have, and it will bolster your immunity as well. There's also a strengthening agent mixed in, so you should be able to ride horseback without falling in a few weeks." The cool, slightly impatient tone of his voice at last proved to Salim that this individual was fully human.

"Are you a doctor?" Erik allowed himself a grimly amused smile behind his mask.

"Hardly," he replied, but furthered the boy's suspicions with his next sentence. "Take it orally, diluted in a cup of water and get to bed immediately. The sedative should take effect immediately and numb the pain. It would be better to be asleep when your body repairs itself."

"So you are a doctor!" The figure only shook his head and Salim could have sworn he'd seen the strange, shining eyes roll exaggeratedly.

"I am not a doctor. Now, good evening, little baron, and remember to take your medicine as soon as possible." He lifted himself up onto the railing and to the noble's alarm, stepped off and appeared to fall. Just seconds later, a black shape glided down to the hard ground and stood again, cape falling back to its original limp, cloth state. _He can fly!_

On the pavement, the genius paused to look back. The boy at last attained an expression of joy on befitting of his age, and waved. _Another first…I have given someone a gift. What the hell is wrong with me?_


	9. Chapter 9: The Man at the Station

**Chapter 9: The Man at the Station**

Christine watched from the rooftop of the opera house as the first snowflakes of winter drifted from the thick, dark clouds. She had dressed warmly on this particular day, but the wool coat didn't cover her mouth as much as she would've liked, even if it did have a wonderfully warm hood. It was silly; missing a lesson because she was 'sick,' but she and her father had always spent the first snow outside, playing and making snowmen or ice sculptures together.

Most likely, M. Erik hadn't bought her excuse at all. She knew that he knew her hoarse throat was faked, and that she had headed to the other end of the theatre, the custodian exits instead of the dorms and kitchen. _And he noticed that I am in black. _She would have turned a deep shade of pink if she were not already ruddy-cheeked from the cold. _He looked at me… Stop it, Christine! It's not as if he were watching because he's attracted to you, _she berated herself. _What would Papa say? Oh, wait…he would say I need to hurry up and get married._

"I thought I might find you here. Now, may I ask what your purpose is in skipping an important practice and staring listlessly at the sky?" Erik stepped out from behind Apollo's Lyre, startling Christine into a squeak. His cloak stayed still in a windless pause of the weather. He looked like a sinister magister right out of a fairy tale. Christine was sure her face was quite red by now.

"Oh- is rehearsal over, then?" She pulled her coat's sleeves down to cover her thumbs as well as her wrists, shifting her weight nervously. _How in the world did my thoughts turn from M. Erik to marriage so quickly?_ A snowflake landed on her maestro's mask, and she followed its path to his eyes. They reflected the white snow, almost appearing as transparent as ice. He was saying something…

"Mlle. Daae? I repeat: rehearsal is not over." He smirked as she seemed to wake out of her daze for a second time, shaking her head to clear her thoughts. "You would not prefer the indoors over this bleak environment?" Her clear laughter surprised him, and he looked at her closely. _So she isn't only fair… She is beautiful. Unreachable._

"The indoors over winter's first little bits of snow? I do not know where you come from, M. Erik, but snow is nature's way of giving us the most beautiful playthings!" This tore his eyes from hers for a moment as he glanced at the thin layer of powder on the stone columns around them. _She said 'us'. And she is speaking with me, as opposed to complaining…_

"I hardly think there is enough snow now to pack into balls of ice and pitch at unsuspecting passersby." Christine smiled as a mischievous thought struck her, and before she could decide not to act on it, she did. Who cared about the consequence?

"No, there isn't, but there's enough to do…this!" she called, scooping some of the frozen dust into her mitten-covered hands and tossing it at her teacher (and perhaps new friend). Erik shook himself out of his casually leaning pose as the ice crystals hit and melted against his cheek. He felt his face shift towards something that might have resembled a genuine smile were it not for the numerous, puckered and toughened scars behind his mask. Lenience took the place of his normally perfectionist attitude.

"Well, if you wish to amuse yourself as such…I will do as you will!" A joyous shriek followed as bits of congealed snow flew from the ground back into the air, rejoining their drifting companions. The man's half-smile widened, to his surprise, as the spirited girl retaliated by flinging frost from the twisted iron railings at his chest.

"Surely you can do better than that, Erik!" His ears warmed at the sound of his first name, and he decided that he quite liked it… _Especially from her lips. Well…my insanity progresses. Why wonder whether I am mad or not when this state is the most enjoyable one I've ever been in? _He flicked some of the cold particles from his shoulders.

"Of course I can do better," he said, coolly spraying his student with an explosion of gold glitter from up his sleeve. Her gleeful shouts rang out in the frigid air as the snow around her was painted gold and her skin and clothes sparkled. Christine threw the glitter-spangled dust back up and marveled as another spray of the sparkling grains, this time in red, colored the grey stone and white ice.

"How do you do that?" she breathed, looking in awe from her shimmering clothes and hair to Erik. He blinked and saw that strange look on her face again, the one she'd had after seeing his duel with Eter. _Iseal said she is…attracted…to me. Now…it isn't so unbelievable. I remember, Christine, your eyes were so bright, just as they are now. _He shot a plume of drifting, glassy green into the air above him and crossed his arms.

"A magician never gives away his secrets, especially not to little girls who might be in the audience the next time he performs…" he answered, a sly, crooked grin flashing over his visible face. The 'girl' before him shed her outermost layer and shocked him to the core. Her curves were fully exposed as her black dress pressed to her skin. _Not 'girl'…woman._

"In that case," the young lady said, pulling her gloved hands from the sleeves of her coat, "I shall have to find out myself." This spawned a hundred thoughts swirling about Erik's head, all involving the removal of his cloak, jacket, and shirt (simply because the small air pump that propelled the glitter was nestled against his side, and not because his brain had decided to take a turn into some unknown land…no, definitely not). He shoved his somewhat sexual thoughts into a dark corner and found his feet approaching Christine. She didn't seem to mind his getting closer. "Though I must say, you have hidden your sparkle-launching powers quite well until now."

He lifted her chin with his thumb, his leather-encased fingers almost stinging from her body heat. His eyes looked almost reverent as her gently examined his girl's- ahem, _student's _face. Her cheeks looked even redder because of the mess of shiny 'snow' that coated her…or was she simply blushing? His long, thin fingers brushed against her throat, and for once, he did not feel the urge to throttle someone when his hands touched their neck. He was occupied in absorbing every detail of the sight before him. The shimmery substance had caught in her arched eyebrows and lashes, and colored her eyes a brighter blue than ever.

Christine did her best not to let her nervousness show. _He's not going to kiss you, silly girl. Stop thinking that! You don't even know how old he is!_ But his face grew closer still, eyes locked with hers. She became aware of a hand at her waist, but was strangely comfortable.

"M. Erik?" Marcus' serious, calm voice was heard from the doorway leading down to the theatre supply rooms just below. "I apologize for interrupting you in your…" He paused and awkwardly cleared his throat. "…But there has been an announcement made by Mme. Giry." Erik reluctantly pulled away from the beautiful young lady before him and scowled in the baritone's direction.

"What does she say?" He waited for an answer, watching from the corner of his eye as Christine's face took on an interested cast.

"She says the opera is cancelled. Her daughter has been kidnapped."

…

Marcus ate his lunch of hot, rich stew in silence, much as most of the crews and cast had chosen to do. The opera had seen abortions, scandals and celebrated, wealthy lovers with wives, even murder once or twice, but a kidnapping was different. One could hope that the victim was still alive, and that hope was more painful than the despair over a death.

Across the narrow wooden table, Christine sat and stirred the stew around her shallow bowl. She had eaten even less than usual, and was staring off into space with a rather happy, sleepy look, much like the one seen on morphine or opium addicts. He waved a spoon in front of her face. "You seem blissful today. Have you been smoking something?" he asked, mouth curling into a dry, near-emotionless mask. _It's either that, or she has fallen in love, most likely with M. Erik._

She didn't respond, only sighed quietly and twisted her left index finger into her hair, knotting it even more severely than usual. _She is clearly in love, and her gaze is directed at someone behind me… _He looked, and, sure enough, there was M. Erik leaning against the wall next to the cast iron stove. _I thought so._

The heavy wooden door of the kitchen/mess hall creaked open, and everyone looked up, including Christine. Duke Philippe had returned. His flawless dress and tall figure filled the large, warm room with his presence. Then people stopped looking at his clothes and shape, and turned their eyes to his face. It was shadowed over with concern and accents of sorrow.

"Mme. Giry has reported to me this tragedy, and you all have my sympathies." Marcus narrowed his eyes. The drooping tone in the duke's voice was too exaggerated…fake. "I am willing to donate enough money to hire another ballerina, but I leave that decision to your new manager. I have no doubt she will make a wise choice." Murmurs of agreement floated about the ceiling's corners, and the young Greek watcher saw the noble's lips curl at the side, fighting a smug look. _He is lying. He's taking advantage of the situation…but for what? _"I want you all to know that the dancer I choose will never replace your dear Meg, but she will be the best in all of Europe." _He speaks as if the decision were already made; a dangerous implication in the ears of all these gossiping sparrows._

As the Philippe of Orleans bowed gallantly (causing several of the more daring girls to fake swoons) and exited, new whispers rose up. Were the police looking for Meg? Had the duke already chosen the new dancer? What if it had been a plan to get rid of Meg and replace her for some devious crime? This last rumor piqued Marcus' curiosity. _A spy inside the opera, particularly in the ballet, could achieve nearly anything almost at will. What does he want?_

He stood without excusing himself and left the kitchen, and followed a route back to the front of the theatre. _If he is doing something important here, he will stop and talk with Mme. Giry, and try to sway her some way…_ He left the dim halls and watched from just behind a corner.

The duc d'Orleans was conversing seriously with a stagehand that Marcus had never seen before. He gestured, but his hands never moved far enough from his body for him to be talking about lighting or props. _Perhaps this individual is his spy. Would the ballet mistress truly have revealed the kidnapping of her daughter in anything other than a bitter comment? _He memorized the stagehand's appearance and face and slipped back to the mess hall.

…

Eter was, for once, not at all timid in accompanying Artur to his room. Normally, she would've blushed at the looks that the various staff of the opera gave them, and told them to stop staring and mind their own business. Today, however, after several hours of doing almost nothing but chat with her large (and well-built) companion, she felt nearly shameless. So what if onlookers thought they were a couple? It wasn't as if they really were…yet.

They reached the door of Artur's room, and he held the door open for her, saying, "I thought you were quite good in the duel. If he won, it was simply because he was quiet and had a rope." The sound of his compliment caused Eter to turn with indignation.

"It was a fair fight! And I lost because he's obviously had more training than I ever had." The bed creaked and groaned under the weight of muscle as the male sat and rested his hand on his knee. "In fact, he seems too good to have just met an ordinary soldier…" She frowned, obviously thinking hard.

"And your concern is that…?" Eter sat next to him on the ground, fearing that any more of a load, and the bed would break.

"Well, there was a rumor going around in my country…" The big man chuckled deep in his chest and she made a note to herself that she should make him laugh more often. He sounded nice.

"Is this going to be your turn telling a story to me?" She craned her neck to look up at her tall friend. His eyes were lit with humor.

"Perhaps," she replied, a small smile lingering about her lips. "But you have to be good and keep it a secret." He felt her small fingers touch his shoulder. "And you must also let me sit on the bed. I cannot tell a good story while on the floor and unable to reach your eyes." Much to her pleasure, Artur laughed again and stood, stretching to touch the ceiling. His eyes stayed on hers as if to make a point that they could indeed be reached.

As she took her place on the now warm blankets, she crossed her legs and took a deep breath, pretending to prepare herself for a great ordeal. She waited for the mountain of a man to take a seat, letting her gaze linger at his shoulders and chest. _I wonder what he did in Russia to be so strong…_ She pulled her long, dark hair back and flicked it off her shoulder, pulling her mind back to the urban legend Hayvan had told her but a few years before.

"My teacher Hayvan told this story, and it is quite- gruesome," she warned. "Are you sure you wish to hear it?" Artur smiled.

"It cannot be more gruesome than Baba Yaga," he teased, and she laughed along with him. "I am sure I want to hear your story. Besides, you must repay me for all of my stories." Eter launched into the tale without further hesitation.

"The Dark Angel- no one knows where he came from, but many people think he was from somewhere in the south of Europe, perhaps even Italy, because he spoke Italian. The sultan found him, I think, standing in a circle of dead ten bodies after a street brawl. Every one of them was choked to death, still warm, and blood dripped from their mouths." She paused dramatically, watching her audience's expression.

"And," she continued, "…there was no sign of a weapon. The sultan knew all these men had been killed at once, strangled or necks snapped, but the foreign man seemed to have no weapon at all. He was dressed all in black, and covered his whole head with a black hood. He was tall, and his eyes changed color, night or day, some say. This foreigner was thin, dreadfully thin, like one starving, and nothing of his skin showed." By this time, Artur was rapt at attention, unconsciously tapping his fingers against the rug he'd laid out.

"The sultan took advantage of the situation, not wanting to be killed himself, and hired the Dark Angel for the Janissaries, to teach them how to kill as he killed. He smartly rid himself of a threat and bought an ally," she said, drawing another tense pause. "But that is not the end. The strange man was so adept with his career that he often killed the soldiers during their practice.

"Many people say that he has made a deal with a devil, for he is a sorcerer and extremely talented in every topic and task. And because he made that deal, he wears the mask. He has no face, not even a nose that you could see in profile." The Russian before her held up his hand.

"What else? Surely having no face was not a terrible enough punishment for a devil to give."

"There was something else…" answered, eyes flashing with a hint of fear even though she herself was telling the legend. "At times he would rage, for an evil spirit took control of him and used him to kill everything in his path. Even then, though, he could be stopped."

"But…there was something more?" Artur bit his lip for a moment to remind his brain that this was probably just a tale made up by a drunk in a dark alley.

"Yes. He was terrible while possessed, but far worse while in his right mind- if one could say he was sane at all. He trained a team of killers, and though no one ever witnessed a murder, numerous enemies of the sultan would be found dead in their beds, stabbed, asphyxiated, or poisoned. Sometimes they were simply dead, with no marks, but always eyes wide with fear."

"So they died of fright?" Eter shifted to a more comfortable position

"It was his lack of a face that killed them. The no-face was cursed. Anyone who looked at him directly would be killed."

Outside, Erik listened with a morbid sort of interest as the description of all his doings in the Ottoman Empire became bloodier and more fantastic. The worst thing was that most of it was true. As Eter stood and opened to return to her room, he stole away, guilty and almost sick at his actions for the first time in his life.

…

Salim had visited his distant cousin Philippe under the pretenses of 'catching up' and 'an interesting deal.' This had surprised the duke, but he had accepted, wanting to see how his blood relation was managing, especially since he knew that the boy's fragile health had kept him locked away in his rooms for months.

The young man himself, of course, had an alternate motive. He needed to turn the conversation away from large corporations to cheap labor, and somehow buy Meg and whoever else his cousin had locked away. He would hire them, and set them free with his own money, not his family's bank account. _I need to do something on my own for once, without a crutch or a splint or some doctor's concoction._

As it happened, he needed no more doctors' concoctions. The sticky black fluid that he'd ingested just the night before had burned, and he had immediately fallen unconscious. In the morning, he did not recognize himself. And tonight he had breathed the harsh, cold air without having to wear a scarf about his mouth and nose.

As he sat in his carriage, he pulled the blinds down and examined himself. He was a skinny as ever, but his skin had acquired a color other than the yellow of fever or the spots of a malicious pox. He was colored healthy and felt it at well. His grip was not weak, and his whole body itched for activity or some sort, something strenuous and not the usual writing and sitting. _I have been changed. I must reach this good doctor and repay him for my healing somehow._

His ride jolted to a stop, and for once, he stepped out without help from the footman or the driver. The mansion of the Orleans family loomed before him. The footman, who had always been a close friend of his, closed the cab's door and stood beside him a moment.

"Are you going to be able to persuade him tonight, do you think, sir?"

"No. But he is holding someone I want to rescue."

"Why go tonight, then, young master?" The older man tipped his hat respectfully, but shook his head in doubt.

"It's politics, hiring people in bulk like this. It's wrong, it's like slavery, but I must free her from that prison Philippe calls a warehouse." Salim's determination showed on his face. With that, he marched up to the enormous double doors and knocked. He was received immediately and disappeared into the darkened, sleeping building.

"'Her'? Crazy young fool… He'll get himself killed trying to do business with that serpent."

Elsewhere in the city, a train clanked and creaked to a halt, spitting sparks and spewing steam into the night atmosphere. A man stepped off before it stopped completely, and straightened his expensive-looking, appropriately distinguished suit. Years of combat on the streets ensured that he never stumbled. A hat covered much of his face, and his gloved hands glowed white in the yellow light of the station's lamps.

He stepped walked calmly, quietly into the stationmaster's office and did not remove the hat. He set a slightly crumpled envelope on the desk. "I need a letter sent to this address," he told the secretary, who only pushed his glasses up his nose and accepted the paper, pretending not to notice the man's strange appearance. "Tell the recipient that I am here to repay my debts and I will meet him at his workplace tomorrow."

He waited while the seasoned old secretary scribbled the message out and handed it back to be signed. "Will that be all, Monsieur?" The man slid a handful of coins onto the worn, knotted surface of the desk. The old worker took a glance at the strange name- and the well-dressed man with white gloves was gone. He sniffed suspiciously and read the name again, working the pronunciation around in his mind before pronouncing it carefully aloud: "Nadir Khan."


	10. Chapter 10: At Tea

**Chapter 10: At Tea**

Salim did his best to appear shrewd and calm as he entered Philippe's study. It was rather late to be visiting, but business demanded a politician's absolute devotion at all hours of the day and night. The duke, his cousin who was a stranger to him, was one such politician.

Philippe stood from his high-backed leather chair and opened his arms with a deceptively amicable smile. "Cousin, welcome! How has your health been?" The boy trembled inwardly, but steeled himself to remember his fake personality.

"My health has been none of your concern." This made the duke pause, but he gathered himself and steadfastly maintained his friendly mask.

"In that case, may I ask why you've come here a mite later than business hours?" He poured himself a drink. _Good. Perhaps he might slip and let me take Meg from his prison while he's drunk._

"For business, my good duke. I've heard you have a bountiful supply of cheap labor." Salim removed his coat and sat down before the ebony desk. "I'm looking for a new maid." Philippe gulped at the strong drink and smiled, white teeth glinting against the firelight in the background. "This was the cheapest place I heard of." The younger man could feel his hands growing clammy.

"Salim, why so formal? You may speak freely with me. Besides," he said with a flippant smirk, "I believe you are not looking for a 'maid,' but a 'mistress,' correct?" The scandalous suggestions made the baron's ears flush, but he went along with them.

"Admittedly, you are correct." As a believable touch, Salim kept a rather mischievous smile tugging at his lips. "And I believe you have quite a few beautiful young ladies kept here, though the conditions are less than flattering." _This makes me sick… If Meg heard this, she'd probably never forgive me._

"True, true, but what are you willing to pay?" As if to emphasize the price of the women in his hold, he flipped a gold coin in the air over and over again, listening to the ringing metal as it hit his thumbnail. _Ha! A young miser instead of an old one. Greed will be your downfall, cousin._

"The price should be reasonable. It is negotiable, depending on the quality of your wares." _I know what he is inside. He's not a businessman, and he's not worthy of the title he carries. He is a slaver._

"Be careful, cousin. You might find yourself paying much more than you think now." Philippe stood, sliding lithely out of his chair with his naturally athletic form. _All the same, I wish I was as physically attractive as he. He could actually have wooed Meg if he hadn't kidnapped her. _"Shall we go so you may have your pick? I have a feeling your tastes are quite discriminating." Salim stood as well. He didn't like the sight of his relative standing over him with that vicious, cruel smile.

"Yes, I think I would like to pick out a girl on my own."

As they walked together down several streets, the duke, ever so tall and strong against the cold and bits of ice flying into their faces, noted that his cousin no longer flinched at the temperature. Instead, his hood was kept down, and his scarf trailed loosely about his neck. There had even been a change in his figure, for now he was lean and not skinny and clumsy. _His growing years have done him well. He might become my physical equal in a few years._

"You have been well, then? You are not as weak as I remember." The baron smiled to himself. _You have no idea, do you? I will be as healthy as you are for the rest of my life, and my life will be long._

His reply was less saucy than his thoughts. "I met a doctor. He made me well, but I cannot know where he is now, even though I would like to thank him." They walked the rest of the way silently, each tense and uncomfortable with the crunch of slush under their feet. Winter was stiff, and felt more that it should be dead than alive.

At last, when their feet were numb and their ears were stinging from the breeze's frozen fangs, the great grey building stood tall over them. Philippe did not seem unnerved in the least. _He seems almost pleased to be here, as if something good has happened here before. Perhaps he uses the women he captures to warm his bed._

"Well then, _baron_, shall we go in and finish our deal?"

Salim ignored the sarcasm at his expense and entered the edifice. It stank like corpses and the very air seemed bloodied and sordid. "How many do you keep here?" _He doesn't keep them. He lets them languish and sets them free as out as skeletons._

The walk was slow and torturous, every step echoing with the faint, weak cries of various victims. Thankfully there were few females to be found, so they stopped only a few times. In those few times, the prisoners suffered consumption, open, infected sores, and rotting flesh. Even when he had walked through the halls a few years before, they had seemed clinical and clean, and did not have blood seeping from under the doors. _And some of them have open, even cuts. They are too methodical to be from beatings and knocking about in the dark._

Another door was opened. The girl inside was not a girl. She had been, at one point, as seen by the wideness of her pelvis, but she was not a girl now. She was a skeleton. _So he does let them rot here._

"I suppose I'll have to have the guards clear that out later," Philippe replied in a rather bored tone. _Disgusting. He has not a shred of respect for the dead. _"We are nearing the last cells, Salim." The sound of his name coming from the duke's mouth made the young man shudder, and suddenly he was just a boy again, fearful and mentally stumbling on the murky, unclean floor. "Are you quite sure you do not wish to return? It is far too late to be out, especially in your condition."

"I am well tonight, cousin." _Yes, make him feel as if he is family again, even though he is entirely soulless. And persuade him that you are well tonight and sick come morning. _The smell was beginning to wear on him, and though his olfactory receptors had shut out the sense, his throat and taste buds were still functioning. He could still taste the blood and disease. "I shall continue."

"Then you have made a wise choice in pursuing your goal to the end." Philippe motioned at the last three filled cells. "The last girl is behind the door nearest you. Go ahead, open it."

_Meg Giry, I hope you are not blinded by the light. _He slid the heavy bolt back and peered into the darkness. It was quiet, dark, and damp, though from blood or excrement he could not tell. Something rustled, and in an instant, Salim Castelot-Barbezac found himself flat on his back with a dirty, angry Mlle. Giry pinning him to the floor. _Why are her eyes closed? Did she learn one of those strange eastern fighting arts?_

Her expression changed from one of rage to surprise.

"Well, it seems your little slut is eager for you already. Are you sure you don't want something more submissive?" Salim could hear the cruel nobleman chuckling somewhat sadistically. He turned again to Meg's grimy face and tangled hair, and decided to employ some of his best acting skills to keep her from saying anything.

He rammed his mouth to hers and kept it there until she went limp against his chest. _I hope that shocks her enough to keep her quiet until I get outside again. _"I am sure of my preferences, thank you. The money is here." He stood and pulled the stunned girl up beside him, handing over a wad of bills. "We'll walk back by ourselves, thank you."

He hurried down the grey stone hall again, eager to be gone from death's storehouse. He did not see Philippe smile to himself. _My weak, illegitimate second cousin will be a lure. When the police come, they will find him raping that little dancer, and he will be arrested. A half-breed like him deserves it._

Meg still had her eyes closed against the light of the lamps, and it was only out in the moonlight that she opened her stinging, watering eyes. Even then, however, the streetlamps hurt as if she were staring into the sun. _Wherever I'm going, it will be a thousand times better than that black hold. He thinks he can make me his? No, never… Charles-_

She cut her thoughts off there. She had heard the screams of his torture just days ago, and her mental wounds were still fresh. It was as if every slash and brand he endured was her pain. But that hadn't been the worst part. She had been allowed by the silent guard to see him, but now she wished she hadn't taken the opportunity.

His mangled body was draped over a rack. She thanked God that she could not see his eyes, for the rest of him had been burned, lacerated, beaten, and starved beyond recognition. She'd known it was him, though. He was wearing the hemp tie through his sleeve, and his brown hair, though matted with blood, was still tousled and familiar. _Charles would not want me to betray him. Charles would not want me to be some slave._

"Mlle. Giry, I can take you back to the opera in the morning." She wrenched her arm away from the man, and when her eyes had adjusted to the dim streets, she looked him up and down. He replied seemed to reply to her thoughts. "I had no intention of making you a slave. I intend to take you back to my place and have you cleaned up. You certainly cannot go back to your place of residence looking like this."

Salim watched her eyes narrow suspiciously. "I don't know who you are or how you know of me…but a warm bath is quite a tempting offer. I believe I will take you up on your offer."

…

Christine loved the way the ground crackled under her feet as she took a walk around the opera house. Perhaps she wished that Erik would come out and look for her again, and they could talk. _I have come to think of him as simply 'Erik.' Is that too forward of me?_

The opera was a large place, full of rooms and recreational areas. It would take more than just five minutes to circumvent its entirety. _Perhaps he cannot see me, but he is looking for me. _She had tried to rid herself of such silly and love-struck thoughts, but to no avail. After all, why try and exterminate such whims when they thrilled her to the bone?

The thought of her wiry, mysterious teacher searching for her so occupied her mind so that she almost tripped over said teacher when she finally happened upon him. She cursed at her red face. Then she turned a shade darker as shame washed over her for her foul mental expletives.

Erik could read her mind through her eyes. _She has been thinking of me, obviously, but in what manner? What am I to her? _He pushed his queries away and tried to concentrate more on Christine than his wandering thoughts of her. "Ah, Mlle. Christine, there you are. Practice starts early, do you remember?" He hoped the use of her first name would not seem too casual, but more personal.

"I- I remember, M. Erik." _She calls me 'monsieur' again… _The realization was painful, and surprising because of it. "I thought someone might come looking for me…"

Something shifted in the world's calibration as she practically forced him to take her on his arm and smiled up at him in gratitude. "Well, we'd best be going, correct?"

Then the world as he perceived it fell back to its original state as the butt end of a rapier grazed the top of his head and its owner tumbled down in front of him. In his daze over his young student, he hadn't heard the attacker until the last second. "Christine, run! Go!" The words rushed out of his mouth as he swung his lasso like a whip, entangling someone behind him. The swordsman on the ground got to his feet.

Erik pulled the rope tight and heard the person scream as the cord burned his skin. Then he saw the individual with the blade running as well. _They want Christine! They cannot have her!_ His weapon snaked off, and he heard the thump of a familiar steel-tipped cane as Mme. Giry in her long black dress hurtled at man and dealt with him quite soundly. "Take that, you bastard!"

More and more of the unidentified thugs ran at him, trying to slow him down, but he was fluid and slippery again, nothing could hold him. His eyes targeted the first hostile that had attempted to knock him unconscious, and he saw the man pull his Christine back by the collar of her winter coat. _He will pay with his blood!_

If anyone had seen the masked man from afar, they would have sworn that all that was there was a black blur and the glint of something metal. He could not reach the struggling girl fast enough for his liking, but when he finally did, he easily pulled the ruffian off of her and sliced his cotton shirt front from his body, exposing the torso of someone too strong to have trained simply for amusement. He caught him by the throat. "Have you any last words to share with the world?" Erik hissed his eyes growing cold and dilated with the rush of combat.

"Erik, control yourself and your blade!" _Whack. _He heard the ballet mistress fending off two more men, seemingly without assistance, and that gained his attention. _Thud. _One of the mercenaries fell, clutching his awkwardly bent knee and howling like a madman. The one who had accosted Christine went limp, faint for lack of air and circulation. "Now come and help me!"

Christine herself stood, trembling, and shakily brushed herself off, more to assure herself that she had retained all her limbs than to clean her attire. She saw something white and silky seize the last attacker around the ribs and gulped back bile as she looked again to her assailant. His face had turned a dark crimson, and he gasped and at last closed his eyes, unconscious. _Where does Erik find in himself such strength to crush a windpipe with one hand?_

The composer released his grip, sure that the man would not attack again for at least half an hour and picked his way through the numerous broken, bloodied kidnappers. To his surprise, an old acquaintance of his was delicately wiping his gloved hands. He tipped his hat to Mme. Giry, and turned to Erik with an irritatingly cocky smile. "Erik, I see you're still wearing the mask I gave you. Could it be that you are turning sentimental and actually acknowledging our friendship?"

Christine at last gathered her nerves together and stepped here and there past the incapacitated criminals to stand beside her tutor. She felt him shift uncomfortably beside her. "As strange as it is that you are here, there was no need to make it any stranger by assisting a woman who is perfectly capable of defending herself." 'Antoinette' emphasized the point by crossing her arms and looking as condescending as one can look while gazing upward. _Who is this man? How does he know Erik?_

The younger lady watched with curiosity and willed her heartbeat to slow, taking slow breaths. "Daroga Nadir Khan, you are utterly insufferable and bloated with pride. And what is your purpose in arriving unannounced?" Erik saw confusion flash across the policeman's face.

"I sent a note last night from the station. It should have reached here by now." Christine pursed her lips and dared to interrupt, since the elderly woman to her left had not yet.

"Who is this man, Erik?" At this, Nadir grinned.

"First name basis, Phantom? I thought you were allergic to women." Then he removed his hat and bowed to the soprano, kissing her fingertips. "Allow me to introduce myself: Nadir Khan, at your service." The look he received from his former colleague could have turned a basilisk to stone.

"'Allergic to women'? What-"

"Well, I apologize for disproving your hypothesis, Khan, but this is my student, Mlle. Christine Daae." He grimaced. "Kindly remove your mouthparts from her hand." Nadir, who had continued to kiss the girl's hand just to taunt his friend, stood straight again, grinning from ear to ear. "Now, what is this about sending a note ahead of you? I have never received such a notice, and if it was delivered as you say, Mme. Giry here would have given it to me." At last the old woman got her word in.

"True, very true. But might we perhaps continue the discussion indoors? This weather, no matter what exercise, cannot be good for geriatric joints."

…

A few minutes later, when the kidnappers had been collected by the police, Erik, his students, Nadir, and Mme. Giry sat at tea on the spacious stage. At first, Mme. Giry had objected to sitting in the floor, but eventually her knees had started to ache from standing. Now she sat cross-legged just as easily as Eter and Nadir did. She didn't quite like the look that Anna was giving the Turk visitor, but he didn't seem to notice at all, chatting happily with Eter in Turkish, and even letting her assist him in removing his gloves. Artur restrained himself and avoided knocking the well-dressed competitor upside the head, even though he looked like he dearly wished to.

"What do you intend to do, Mme. Giry? Your daughter has been missing for over a week, and there has been no sign of her." She fought to keep her stoic expression and keep from dissolving into tears at the man's accented question.

"I intend to let you handle it, M. Khan. M. Erik has told me that you are reliable and resourceful. And if you are not, I will make sure you become as such." Her cold tone made him withdraw slightly, and he changed the subject. _I miss my Meg…but if she is indeed my flesh and blood, she will not be in pain now. She will have escaped or…or died trying._

"He has been complimenting me behind my back? I am shocked, utterly stunned! Since when did the master of insults turn to what might be considered flattery?" Eter giggled, but scooted a little closer to her giant friend when he shot her a longing and rather jealous look. Her eyes seemed to say, 'don't worry. I belong to you and no one else.'

Erik scowled, and his mouth turned downwards. Christine, having kept her eyes on him throughout the conversation, suddenly developed a dislike towards this particular expression. _He looks better when he is pleased._ She sipped at her tea and ignored the sting of lemon against her chapped lips.

The composer stood suddenly, long legs unfurling gracefully in a manner that left the young Christine breathless. "We have work to do, and a long-delayed practice to attend. Even if there will not be a performance of _Il Guarany,_ you all must keep your voices in top condition." Everyone got up and started to follow Erik backstage, where one of his many passages began, but Anna stopped to pat Nadir on the shoulder.

"He's always th'perfectionist, isn't 'e?" The policeman nodded distractedly, concerned over his friend's sudden mood swing. Then Mlle. Iseal took her leave as well, stopping only to take a last gulp from her cup, which she had spiked with brandy. The stern old woman next to Nadir gingerly massaged her knees and ankles.

"Any more of this and I might not be able to stand again." She extended her legs with several pops and cracks, ending in a rather undignified position that pushed her teacup and saucer a distance away from her. "You believe you can bring my daughter back?"

"I do believe so. But that does not mean I can guarantee her safe return. I have been wrong before, but thankfully all ended well." He swallowed his still-warm drink and set the porcelain down on the slightly dusty stage. "It was Erik who saved the situation." He smiled, amused, as Mme. Giry gave a wry grin.

"Somehow, Monsieur, that does not surprise me in the least." She hefted her cane and tried to pull herself up by it, slowly curling her heels under her again for support, but sat down again with a thump when she found that her arms were not strong enough to lift her body weight. "He has impeccable timing."

"Yes, and with that impeccable timing he saved my sorry neck." He chuckled when the lady's eyebrows moves slowly upwards.

"I should like to hear of that escapade on a merrier day." She at last succeeded in ordering her arthritic bones to obey and stood as proudly and uprightly as ever.

Nadir rose with her, then picked up his hat and looked around, bewildered. "That merrier day will be when two things that were lost are found."

"You are a cryptic man if you answer me as such, Daroga Khan." The widow raised her arms above her head in a stretch that displayed the flexibility she had once possessed. The man, who she had decided must be at least forty by the bits of grey at his temples, scratched his head.

"I mean that the merrier day will come when I have found your daughter…and my fine new gloves. I think that someone's managed to pickpocket me of them."


	11. Chapter 11: Fat Rabbits

**Chapter 11: Fat Rabbits**

Meg had rather reluctantly enjoyed her stay at the nobleman's house. She was, of course, anxious to get back to her mother, but Salim had proved to be charming and even attractive despite his skinny limbs and body. He had introduced himself rather gallantly after their tense first meeting and kissed her fingertips at the door of his home… _But Charles…no, I can't think about that now. He's dead, and there's nothing to do except mourn for a while and move on… This Salim seems familiar. Perhaps he is a patron of the opera?_

She steeled herself even as her vision blurred with tears, and tied the white cloth loosely over her eyes, enabling her to see in the bright light of day without going blind. The week of darkness had made it hard to adjust to sunlight, but she had managed to eat breakfast with the curtains closed. Now she was preparing to return to her own place, and it almost terrified her. _Knowing the police, they most likely have not done anything. _What would everyone say? That she had eloped with the baron and only now returned, rejected and poor? _No, that's far too ridiculous… However, ridiculous is the ballerina's specialty. I suppose I shouldn't put it past my fellow dancers to start rumors like that._

She blinked several times to adjust to the feel of the gauzy blindfold and decided to investigate the gargantuan closet in the corner. Salim's maid had pulled out a fine linen nightgown for her to wear after her warm bath the night before, but she couldn't come back to her mother looking as if she'd been made a permanent resident of this young man's household already.

In the wardrobe was a rack of expensive-looking dresses, arranged neatly by size and as far as she could tell, occasion. There was even a costume from some long-ago masquerade ball. _Whose room is this? Does it belong to an aunt of his, or do nobility regularly stock their guest rooms with fancy attire?_ Meg's curiosity yielded a silken, graceful result as she chose a slightly plainer dress from the back of the wardrobe. It was rather casual and extremely indecent compared with the other skirts and gowns, as it left both shoulders bare. The dark red contrasted nicely with her sun-starved skin. _Mother will probably say something about this before she welcomes me back, _she thought with a mischievous grin, _but as much as I regret Charles' death, he wouldn't wish me to mope about in black. Yes, he'd like something like this…_

With a determined smile, she marched down the stairs and into her host's lavish dining room.

Salim turned from idly watching his large front room as he heard graceful dancer's feet padding down the steps. It was to Meg's feet that he first looked, and saw that she still wore her ballet slippers, as they had been cleansed by his one attentive maid. Then he noted that the red dress that she'd chosen was shorter than was appropriate for a noble lady, which, as his eyes trailed over her dainty ankles and toned calves, looked quite appealing.

Then he remembered that he was supposed to play the gentleman and tried not to let his gaze linger too long at the girl's exposed shoulders and neck. The mouth above those shoulders and neck startled him into a somewhat sheepish expression.

"Are you quite done looking anywhere besides my face, M. Castelot-Barbezac? I would like to return home now, if you please." Meg took the last steps down to the carpeted floor and strode towards where she knew to be the front doors.

"O-of course, mademoiselle…" He pushed the door open for her, and if he had not been focused entirely on the girl's clean-smelling blonde hair, he would have been surprised. He had pushed the heavy double doors to home open without assistance for the first time.

…

Marcus heard the faint clipping of hooves against the pavement outside and wondered who was visiting so early in the morning. _Lazy patrons or tourists usually visit much later._ He glanced back at M. Erik, who was instructing Christine on the finer points of projecting one's voice. His hand was over her diaphragm and she was blushing light pink in the spotlight. He looked away again and forced himself to focus in on the sounds from outside rather than the blooming romance before him. _It might be that Daroga man who interrupted the attempted kidnapping yesterday…_

Erik at last managed to draw his gaze away from Christine's lovely, slightly abashed face as someone entered the auditorium. _Ah, the boy in the sickbed who gave me information… How did he manage to find me? He could not have followed me from a third story drop…or perhaps he does not know me. _Beside him, Christine, who had not bothered to remove Erik's gloved hand from her torso, squinted towards the back of the dark theatre.

"I know that face…it's…" Her blue eyes widened in amazement. "That's Meg Giry!"

At the sound of her daughter's name, Mme. Giry rushed out with what could only be called a desperate yell. "Meg! My Meg, where is she?!" Salim, who had stepped aside to admit the relieved mother, watched with something akin to fondness as his former charge took the full force of the embrace. Surprisingly, she did not fall backwards, but gracefully stepped back and accepted the ballet mistress into her arms.

A startled but tender moment passed, and then: "Why are you blindfolded? What in heaven's name are you wearing, Meg Giry?" Eter tried to keep from giggling as she noticed that the maestro Erik had still not removed his hand from Christine's front. In fact, he had shifted to a more comfortable position; he was holding her about the waist, and she had yet to notice.

The young soprano watched with tenderness as Meg only hugged her mother tighter and smiled as the older woman tried to cover her bare shoulders with a shawl. _If I'd had a mother, perhaps she would fuss over me just so._ Her hand drifted downwards and came into contact with the cool skin of Erik's wrist. "Oh!"

She tried to turn around in his grip, but he rested his chin on her shoulder and kept her firmly in place. "Relax, little angel," his smooth voice purred in her ear. She instantly and involuntarily did as she was told and relaxed, even daring to lean backwards a bit. _When did he gain such complete control over me? He can manipulate me almost at will… _It was hardly unnerving, truly, for she felt quite secure in his grasp.

Erik relished the physical contact that Christine seemed to give him of her own free will. _I am a moth, and she is a flame…but if I fly too close, she will consume me. _While he was unsure of where his thoughts were going, he was certain that his eyes would close in bliss if he remained holding the beauty he held now.

Meanwhile, a somewhat amused Salim tried to reconcile the little child he saw in her mother's arms with the feisty young woman he had taken into his home just a few hours prior. A deep voice growled something behind him and a thud was heard as something hit the carpeted floor. He decided not to step forward immediately and looked out of the corner of his eye.

"Iseal, you do not pickpocket a guest!" _They house thieves? _He whirled around at the stern exclamation and ran into what appeared at first glance to be a wall covered in cloth. _The wall moves and speaks? No, that can't be right… _He stepped back again and was faced with a kind, scarred face a distance of about a foot and a half above his own. "Hello, guest. I thank you for returning the little dancer," Artur said in his awkward, accented French. "The ingrate behind me is Iseal, and she is a…"

"Kleptomaniac?" finished Salim and Anna in unison.

"Yes. Now, Iseal, apologize to the guest for your thieving, and return his pen." Salim watched as the slightly disheveled redhead recovered from her spill and scowled at the tall Russian. "_Apologize._"

"Very well then, _Glubokiy_, I _'pologize_," she said, and slapped the pen into the young baron's waiting hand with a sarcastic emphasis on her last words. Artur glared back at her with such disapproval that Salim feared for Iseal's health and interrupted. She did not strike him as one deserving of death.

"I'm sorry; I never quite got your name. I'm Salim Castelot-Barbezac, by the way," he said as he held out his hand. He almost instantly regretted offering his hand. Artur's hand encased everything from his fingertips to his wrist and squeezed hard enough that he felt he would be bruised black and blue.

"I am called Artur Glubokiy." Anna had the mercy (or mischief) to separate their hands.

"Glubokiy, y'don' crush th'hand'v a guest!" she cried in a mockery of Artur's earlier admonition. She turned to Salim and grinned. "I'm Anna Iseal. I know y'name already, no need t'tell me again." She looked serious for a moment and said, "This's random bit'v information, but M. Erik's'n love with Christine."

Artur looked to the stage where said persons were watching as Meg and her mother exchanged news and reassurances. He almost choked on his own spit at Anna's next comment. "…And you're'n love w'Meg. Y'should court her."

…

Nadir narrowed his eyes in concentration as Anna walked back to her room. _Why would she go back now? Practice is not over… Perhaps she has gone to deposit something she's stolen._ He had been waiting for the opportunity to enter the thief's room and steal back his gloves, but being caught going through a young woman's things was not something he wanted to have to explain.

He followed her down the hall, careful to step close to the wall so that the floorboards would not squeak under his weight. She seemed completely unaware of his presence, so he nearly had his shirt front sliced open when a broken bottle was swung at his gut. "Damn you! Stop followin' me!"

He gathered his nerves and manipulated his expression to one of smugness and determination. "My gloves, Mlle. Iseal, if you please."

"I didn' take 'em!" Her hair flew about her face like a mane of fire. _She looks like a phoenix. If she weren't female, she would make an excellent soldier, provided she could be broken in._

"You blinked. You are clearly lying." Anna stood to her full height, looked the suit-clad Turk in the eye without blinking, flinching, or looking away, and backhanded him across the cheekbone.

"I did no' take y'gloves." Nadir felt a cut open in his left cheek and looked down at the thief's right hand; a sapphire ring glinted in the dim light of a nearby lantern.

"You did take the Baron Castelot's ring, however. Hand it over," he ordered with his most formal voice. He watched the woman tip her head to the side with a sly, almost villainous smile.

"May I offer y'a bargain?" As a regular customer in the international network of black markets, he could not turn such an offer away. Of course, that particular habit had been instilled in him by the ever-lawless Dark Angel…

"The ring for… What do you wish in return?" he asked, suddenly wary. She could be asking an impossible price. He needn't have worried, though…or need he?

"Tell me a story 'bout M. Erik. Y'know 'im well enough." _Perhaps she is only curious. He has never told anyone of his past, it seems… How will Mlle. Daae deal with his story? Or will they ever be together? I certainly hope so. He is in need of a woman's touch._

"I should not tell tales without his consent. And if I should tell you anything of him, I will be dead. Dead men tell no tales," he said, smirking with his earlier wit and exaggerated charm.

"Then no ring." Anna shifted her weight to one hip and raised one strikingly bright eyebrow. This wiped the smugness from Nadir's face in a hurry.

"You are a wicked vixen, did you know?" The petty criminal before him cracked a smile.

"Oi, y'jus' noticed, did ya?" She handed the ring over as previously requested. "Now tell me a story!" Khan pocketed the scrap of jewelry and grimaced.

"I suppose as undeserving you are of a story about M. Erik, I must keep my end of your deal and tell a tale…" He sighed dramatically, extracting a giggle from the redheaded girl. When he looked out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Erik walking with Christine to the kitchens. _She has enormous power over him and has yet to discover it…_

Anna poked his shoulder to regain his attention. "Th'story?" He turned away from the blissful but oddly disturbing scene and put on another of his saucy grins.

"Erik used to breed rabbits when he lived in Italy." Then the Daroga of Mazenderan sprinted away and back out onto the stage, leaving Anna wondering if her maestro was as scary as he tried to look. Then she finally gathered her wits. The clever man was gone, but she decided to shout up the hall anyway.

"Tha's no' a story!"

…

Erik had been extremely reluctant to release his hold on Christine, but unfortunately, walking required that both his feet remain on the ground, and they could not stay so unless he put away the concentrated happiness of holding her. Therefore, he now refrained from any forward contact with her, for fear of losing his train of thought.

"Where are we going, Erik?" He felt his heart pounding furiously as Christine blushed and folded her hands against her dark skirts. "I mean- if you would consent to my using only your first name. I know you by no other."

"There is nothing I should like better. Allow me to reintroduce myself, then," he said, stopping a moment. "My name is Erik, mademoiselle." He could not help but linger a second longer than necessary as he bent to kiss her fingertips. They smelled as if she had been out in fresh grass despite the onset of winter. _She is so full of life, and so young and delicate…as if she were born to make me a good man…as if she were born to tame me._

Christine felt shivers skip up her arm at his touch. If his hand and his skin had been cool, his lips were warm indeed…or was that simply her imagination, leftover attraction from their embrace as she had cried for her father? Part of her hoped it was not. _What am I becoming? A wanton, loose woman, or an immature little girl fallen in love? Pappa would not have approved of my letting him hold me the way he was earlier…_

Then he stood tall again (very tall, almost a head taller than she) and tried to keep from impulsively kissing her lips as well as her hand. "It is not as if I have any other real name for you to call me by," he said, more to himself than anyone else.

_He has no surname? Why not? Is he an illegitimate child? Perhaps I shall ask if when- if- we become closer friends…or closer still than friendship is. _She quickly pushed the implicit thoughts out of her mind, pretending not to have heard his soft speech. Instead, she tried to keep the conversation running. "You have not answered my question."

Erik felt his heart stop for a second with worry. _What?_ Had she asked about the mask? He looked to examine her expression, and let out a relieved sigh. She was smiling mischievously, almost smirking at his momentary confusion. "We are going to my house. I have-"

His breath caught as she nibbled at the tip of her finger, but he willed himself to breathe again and continued. "I have a gift for you, waiting just downstairs. Think of it as my condolences for the loss of your father." The sadness showed in her eyes, and he feared that he'd made a mistake in his good wishes, but she kept her smile up.

"Thank you, Erik." He thought his heart would burst. It was she who should be thanked. Not one person had ever thanked him as courteously as she had just then (Nadir did not count), and his chest swelled with joy.

"You are most welcome." Christine noticed that his voice was sincere as he replied as courtesy demanded. She was indeed most welcome. _He sounds as if he would give me the heavens if he could. Why? I have done naught but exist and be his pupil and friend…but he knows despair. He must, else he would not be so…vulnerable._

They stood there in the corridor for a moment, absorbing and realizing for the first time the meanings behind the words of politeness. Then Erik broke the comfortable silence. "Shall we depart for a bit, little angel?" She only giggled in reply and made for the vague outline of the secret door set into the wall. She leaned against it, and a dark tunnel seemed to swallow her, leaving only a trace of her sweet voice behind.

It took five seconds of his life to be amazed at both his student's cleverness and eyesight. She had learned the door's mechanics within a minute after spotting it without his notice. Then again, she was _his_ student, wasn't she?

He smiled and followed the girl into the passage, letting the false wall slide back into place behind him with not even a click.

…

The stagehand with dirty clothes was gulping his lunch down far faster than was healthy. Marcus was careful not to let his brow crease or stare so that his quarry would not notice its tail. _Some workers go places during their lunch breaks. Who would notice if this one, who works with oil and pulleys, was absent for just a slight while longer than needed for a walk in one of the city's parks?_

The plan was simple: create a diversion, let the spy 'escape,' and send a trained dog to follow him. The perceptive baritone lacked all but the first and essential step, the distraction that would send his devious victim scurrying back to its master. Then he let his eyes drift to avoid suspicion, as the spy eyed him for a moment.

As it happened, his gaze fell upon Artur and Eter, who was using her straight knife (the kard, she'd called it), to cut an undercooked potato. She stabbed at it with enthusiasm, even vehemence, as if it had done something to offend her mother. _Well, this audience may prefer operas, but no one ever tires of comedy… _He tuned in on Artur's deep, gravelly speech, which was quite easy to pick out in the clamor of higher-pitched voices.

"…there is no use in killing dead vegetable, G-zha Eter. It has not willingly insulted you, yes?" Eter glared up at the man, putting on a childish half-pout.

"I prefer my potatoes mashed; better, pulverized," she replied, punctuating her clauses with more precise cuts to the partway-boiled tuber in her chipped bowl. "Besides that, it decided to launch itself at my nose when I tried to cut it with the other knife- and don't deny it! You saw it as well as I did!"

Marcus stood and stepped over the heavy wooden bench, purposely going around the table and passing the spy. He was rewarded with a greasy cotton handkerchief, which was quickly stuffed into his own casual work trousers. His elbow bumped the man's back as he turned nervously, and he wheeled around again, instinctively tense.

Thankfully, the guilty-looking individual only muttered a quick apology and went back to trying to stomach his meal.

The bickering pair didn't seem to notice his approach until he was just behind the small, sharp-tongued girl. Artur raised his eyebrows and grinned as if he were having the time of his life, if only because of the companionship of the witty little creature sitting adjacent him.

"Ah, holla, Marcus!" Then the bass stage-whispered, "I have been reading Shakespeare- 'holla' is meaning to be expressing joy," he said, leaning forward conspiratorially, with an arch of his burnt, scarred eyebrow. _His grammar needs as much improving as my accent,_ Marcus thought. "So, friend, this is not a social visit, I think."

"You are correct, Artur. Though I'd love to stay and socialize with the both of you, I need a favor that requires your skills." He took a knee between them, smiling as if only joking, but letting no one hear his calm instructions but them. "Do you agree to this?" They nodded solemnly, and rose as if to request seconds from the cook. Marcus sat again, leaning against the table as if waiting for their return, and waited for the show to begin.

About three yards from the rest of the group, Eter shouted, "For my murdered potato!" earning the crews' full attention. "I must avenge my potato!" she yelled out above the clangs and rushing sounds of the dishes being scrubbed. Artur struggled to contain his laughter as she brandished her dagger, reaching high in order to threaten his arched, thin nose.

"The potato is food! It is meant to be eaten. So, I am not a cannibal as you claim!" If the kitchen workers and various cooks had not been attentive before, they were now. A few of the more delicate ones gasped as he drew his own weapon, the long steel pipe, and pounded the warm stone floor. "I will not be falsely accused!"

"Flesh-eating monster," Eter sobbed out, exaggerating her motions, "you shall die for your crimes against potato-kind!" A moment later, the giant was seized by the collar and hurled into a pile of empty potato sacks, raising both a cloud of dust and flour and a rousing cheer from the audience.

Only Marcus noticed the spy in grimy clothes slip out of the mess hall. He hurried to follow in the chaos, and ducked into the passageway, following on silent feet.

The spy followed what seemed to be a familiar route, and exited the opera house through a worn side door. _He knows this way. How long has he been leaking information to the Duc d'Orleans?_ The Greek waited until his quarry was out of earshot, and then whistled. His two small mutts, whom he had appropriately named Mikroutsikos and Mikro, came scampering up, scruffy fur and collarless necks eager for a pat. Mikro, wagging her tail, sniffled at the oily cloth in Marcus' back pocket and sneezed.

He retrieved the scrap and held it to the dogs' noses, then clicked his tongue and pointed up the street in the direction his victim had gone. "Go." The faithful animals ran as he directed, noses near to the paving stones, and looked for the entire world like a pair of ordinary strays.

…

Christine had had a wonderful time with Erik, enjoying his magic tricks and the way he charmed the newborn rabbits. _…So that rabbit he punished Anna with was fat for a reason_, she mused. "Erik, do you think they've noticed our absence yet?"

"I hope not, m- Christine. I should like very much to spend another hour or so here with you," he said, editing the possessive pronoun out of his speech for fear of alienating her. He smiled for about the twentieth time that day at her laughter as she cupped one of the baby bunnies in her soft, pale hands.

"And I should also like to spend more of the day with you, visiting, and not always practice." _See how she smiles, Apollo, and how she laughs with me…you see all and know all in our shared domain. I dare you tell me that she is not happy with me!_

The sound of hard pointe shoes against the stone made the pair look up with surprise at their visitor. It was Meg, obviously still resting from her ordeal in the prison, and looking out of breath and anxious. Christine, still cradling the tiny, white bundle of fur and warm flesh, asked, "Meg, what brings you here? I thought your mother would want you to rest, not go running about in that red dress…"

Mlle. Giry took in as much air as she could so as to prepare for what would be a long, rapidly spoken explanation. Erik frowned. He had not expected or wanted an interruption, least of all from the tiny dancer. "What is your business here, Mlle. Giry? Does Mme. Giry require something of me?"

The ballerina stretched her arms, sore from the quick rowing of the boat, and gazed about with eyes uncovered by gauze. They had fully adjusted to light, it seemed. "Christine, I don't know how to break this to you, and I know you've been mourning, but please bear with me and-"

"_State your business and be done with it!_" Erik interrupted, almost shouting in frustration. Interrupting _his_ time with _his_ Christine was a crime. To his irritation, Meg seemed completely unruffled.

"Alright." She smoothed her skirts out and took a last deep breath. "I remember the name of the man in the cell next to me. Christine, your father is alive."


	12. Chapter 12: The Meeting

Chapter 12: The Meeting

Christine sat still, as frozen as the winter world outside and as shocked as summer lightning. _Min Pappa is alive…_ At first she was disturbed that she had not broken down in sobs of relief. After all, it was the customary thing to do, the very thing she thought she would have done. Her next thought pushed the discomfort away, but returned the pain of hope. _Min Pappa is in a prison._

Then the tears came, and the blurred, salt-soaked questions. "Where is he? I need to see him! Is he well? What have they done with him?!" From somewhere inside her brain, she watched as her body reacted to the news and realized that she was indeed becoming hysterical. She was a small child again, wanting to be held as she cried…but was it her Pappa who she wanted to hold her, or Erik?

Meg desperately tried to calm Christine, but she would not be calmed. Erik watched for the first few minutes and thought how similar the situation was to one he had created as an assassin. He had killed- murdered- a girl's father. The girl had cried aloud, screaming and cursing him, and would have attempted to take his life had his guards not restrained her. _Now her pain is my pain. How many lives have I ruined? _The notion bothered him for once. How long before he made rubbish of another's life?

How long until he inevitably ruined Christine's life? He, Erik, who had been confident in his achievements, now questioned the negative impacts of those achievements. _I have killed, but how many more have I caused to die?_

Meg struggled with a different dilemma; namely, a half-hysterical Christine Daae. Almost irritated instead of caring now that her expensive red dress had been wet with tears and mucus, she thrust the girl away and into M. Erik's arms. _I should care more about this Gustave Daae, but I have been in that prison myself. I am not familiar with M. Daae. _She gave a sad smile of understanding, for she had lost her own father, albeit in a different way. _She deserves all the help available to her. I would not wish that hellish confinement on anyone except Philippe d'Orleans._

Christine buried her face in Erik's shirt, hoping in the back of her mind that he would hold her again. He did. _She holds me when she cries…otherwise I must either ensnare or frighten her. How many people have held me? _He pushed the question aside and focused more on the feel of the girl's tight grip around his torso. It was good to be held, and now he understood why lovers held each other even without kisses.

Meg looked upon the pair for a minute, and saw M. Erik return the embrace. Feeling that she was intruding, she backed away and returned to the surface, almost smiling to herself. _They have found each other…but I must leave it up to fate to open their eyes._

After a few more minutes, Christine calmed, controlling her breathing so she would not hiccup. "Oh…I apologize," she said, drawing away from the man. Erik held his breath. Did she think it wrong to hold him? "I'm afraid I've wet your shirt again…" Her eyes were lined with red, and she seemed even paler than before. She did not pull away completely, still grasping his elbows. It seemed as if the nerve points there had fired off, but in a most delightful manner. She was still sniffling, and her astoundingly clear tears still fell as she attempted to blot the moisture from his shirt with the hanky she kept up her sleeve.

Erik gazed at her pain-filled eyes, wishing he could draw her pain away. She was always beautiful, always perfect, but her sadness was his now. _I care nothing for that royal prick's motives. He has hurt the same way I have, and no one should ever be like me. He has hurt Christine… _He felt his heart clench in his chest as another droplet slid down his student's cheek. _That is unforgiveable._

Though he disliked having to stop Christine's hands as they touched his chest, he stood and pulled her up with him. "Christine, Christine…" he crooned soothingly, "I promise, the duke will not go unpunished. I will ensure it." At this, she looked away from her rather pointless task, but kept her hands on his chest.

"The duke? But what could you possibly do to him? He is rich, royal, and a cheat…" A hint of cynicism colored her normally gentle voice. "The police have done nothing and probably will do nothing for the rest of history." She sniffled and hiccupped again, which interrupted the sound of her breathing and reminded Erik yet again that he could not allow her to remain unhappy.

"I could return your father to you. I would do anything to make you happy again," he admitted slowly, "for you have made me happy. I am only repaying a debt."

"I- I don't understand; what debt is there to be paid?" she asked, now bewildered. "I 'make you happy'?" Thankfully she did not start an embarrassing, intimate conversation about his willingness to help her.

"You are the first friend I have had who has trusted me. That, _cher_, is what makes me happy." _If only I could make her more than a trusted friend…_

…

Philippe scowled at the paperwork before him as he sat in one of his many offices in the city of Paris. He had not expected building a munitions factory- only the building, not the equipment- to be so complicated. Perhaps it was because he was building on land that had once been full of apartments that housed the middle class of Paris.

The spy he'd planted in the opera house was scheduled to return that afternoon with information. He checked the grandfather clock in the corner of the relatively plain-looking study. _He's late again. Surely he is clever enough to create a valid excuse for his daily reports to me? _It took exactly two minutes more for the hired, dirty man to burst into the office, damp from both the cold outside and the exertion of his sprint.

"M. le Duc, I-"

"Spare me the excuses," Philippe cut in. "Tell me what you've found." He did not look up from his work, instead upending an ornately carved hourglass. "You have five minutes." The poor man, exhausted and sweating, began to stammer, hoarse from thirst.

"Monsieur, please, I need-"

"Tell me the news first, and you will have water later." _At last!_ The man held out a pair of white gloves and swallowed nervously.

"The composer's friend is an official from the Ottoman Empire." Philippe raised an eyebrow in disapproval.

"You did not think to keep your skin from touching these? Pity." The deep growl of some feral beast resonated throughout the room. The spy shivered. As well as his profession paid, there were still some unpleasant parts about it; namely, that _thing_ in the back of the room that seemed too graceful and malevolent to be a hound. He started when his employer began speaking again. "I would have had my pet here retrieve the unfortunate man." The duke toyed with the gloves and, after a moment of consideration, set them on his desk.

The spy, now trembling, swallowed back a gasp of fright as two pairs of bright yellow eyes opened in the backdrop of shadows. Still, he was so bold as to persist in his request: "Monsieur, my salary is due…"

"Your salary is here. You are free to get it." He took a step forward, but a snarl ripped from the darkness again. Philippe did not flinch, inwardly pleased that this poor man was afraid of the power he wielded. The glaring eyes narrowed slightly. "Well, don't waste any more of my time." He slid the small stack of banknotes forward, scraping them over the worn surface of the desk. "Take your pay."

The man at last gathered his nerves and snatched the money from the desk. The clinking of metal signaled heavy chains being pulled taught, and a deep roar blew some of the papers from the desk. With a half-scream, the trembling figure bolted out of the building and back onto the street.

He almost tripped on two scruffy-looking mutts, but hurried on his way, stuffing his salary into his grimy shirt.

The dogs gazed awhile at his retreating figure. One lay down on the cold sidewalk and rolled in the thin layer of snow. The other sniffed at a paper that had drifted to the ground. He picked it up in his teeth, scratched himself, and set to trotting in the same direction the terrified human had gone…but did not follow him. His sibling followed, lightly dusted in fine ice crystals that glinted in the afternoon sun.

…

The spy, frightened and cold as he was, decided to take a few minutes to return home and drop his money in a safe place. He did not think himself a man anymore, but a coward. _I am no longer Jacques Bennue, but a lowlife grunt worker, a mangy dog for the duke. _He had worked in a textile factory until the duke had offered him better pay, and with a wife and child, he took the job without hesitation. _And yet, to see my family fed for another night is worth it._

He approached his front door and stole inside, relishing the small bit of warmth from the small stove in the small kitchen. Small things were always appreciated, especially when they approached him with an embrace. "Jacques, you're home early!" His wife, Arielle, having just finished rinsing their dishes, strode forward to hug him close. "You smell like oil, go change!" At that, he had to smile. He had always known she was too good for him.

"I will smell of oil for as long as I work at the opera! There's nothing to be done about it, really, except perhaps hope it won't rub off on you," he said, kissing the housewife's temple.

"It will if you don't change soon," she teased, wiping her wet hands on a rag. "Jean! Your father's home!" she called. A little boy of no more than four years ran out of the shared bedroom holding a wooden flute. He threw himself into his papa's arms, giggling.

"Papa!" Jacques scooped the child up and sat him on his shoulder, enabling the boy to touch the ceiling. "I got a flute from the man on the corner today! Look!" He then proceeded to blow out a lively marching air, extracting a laugh from his father.

"Well done, boy! Maybe one day you'll play for our nation's army! Now go back and practice for a while, eh?" Jacques watched his son scamper into the back room, smiling. Then he turned back to his wife. His smile melted away like a snowflake over a bonfire. "Arielle, how much did that cost?"

The lines at the corners of his eyes became more visible. A speck of grey in his hair betrayed tension. "It was ten francs. Oh, but he was so eager to have one, and-"

"We can't afford these things, not while Jean's too young to work or go to school. It is good for him to learn music, but please, dearest…don't go too far, not while the duke pays me so little."

"You can't get a raise at the opera?" Her voice was hopeful, sad.

"No," he replied, sitting down at their worn, creaky table. "I don't know how to make costumes or design props, or even how to work the lighting." He rested his head in his hands, slipping to the floor. "I cannot ask more of the duke, not only because he won't pay any more, but because I feel I am not a man when I carry out his dishonest work. I am a coward, Arielle." The poor woman, who had stood patiently beside him, now grasped his shoulders and pulled him to face her, kneeling so as to be near to him.

"Jacques Bennue, you will never be a coward to me. You are brave to work for that scum, and handle his insanity. You are a courageous man, never doubt it." She kissed him full on the mouth for a moment for comfort.

"You were always too good for me. You are aware of that, are you not?" he asked.

"I am aware." He sighed and just held her for an hour, until he was sure that she had fallen asleep from the warmth of his hold. It was hard to have a family, but it was enough; he needed nothing else but to support them.

…

Christine hated feeling helpless. It was unnerving, knowing her father was locked away, possibly even tortured, and that she could not do anything. She had cried in Erik's arms awhile, but only so many minutes passed before she resolved that she would do something- anything- to help…or to stop the tears. So she dared ask him, even though she was frightened: "Erik…would you teach me to fight?"

His initial reaction had been one of disbelief. How could she help when she could not physically harm the duke without going to prison? Was it even a moral thing to do in her eyes? It had taken her a full ten minutes of insistent pleading to get him to agree. Now, however, he was perusing his personal armory…and finding that none of his weapons were quite suited to Christine's hands, height, or strength.

He frowned at the blade-bedecked walls. Though each one was perfectly balanced in his hands, Christine was smaller, and by nature, weaker. The soprano shifted next to him, suddenly colder than usual in the small room. There were killing instruments, not light playthings as Eter had made them seem. _Yet I must learn. I cannot stand by as people close to me are hurt or killed._

Something glinted at the corner of her eye. She turned, more out of instinct than curiosity, and saw a brown whip with a polished steel butt hanging dejectedly from a rack as if discarded. "How would this suit me?" she asked, pulling the cool leather from its place and running her fingers over it. Erik came to her side and watched as she weighed the thing in her right hand. The handle was the correct width and seemed to warm to her grasp in the way some weapons simply did. "It's comfortable enough, unlike those," she commented, nodding at the array of small daggers, dirks, and even darts that she'd already tried.

"It fits, but how will you handle it?" Erik let his hand drift towards her hair and hoped she would not feel the slight tug as he twisted a lock around his index. "Have you worked with a whip before?"

"No." _Well, this complicates things… _"It fits my hands, though." _Very few weapons fit your hands, Christine. You are nonviolent almost by nature. _He took another, longer whip from the rack and snapped it in the small space, causing the poor girl to jump. He was rather amused by her fright, for once. She would never be in any danger by his hand.

"Shall we begin, then?"

…

"Aim lower; the whip will go higher automatically," Erik instructed. Teaching a woman how to fight with something as common as a whip was strange, especially when that woman pursued his standards with determination. He rather admired this drive in Christine.

They were still onstage, with a single candle lit and nothing else.

The target candle flickered as the leather whisked by for the twentieth time. It was now late in the night, as they had practiced together for several hours. Christine had mastered the first few lessons quickly, but this one seemed to have her stumped. The objective was to put the candle out without burning the hide of the weapon. She was of the opinion, now, that it was a trick candle and designed not to go out. Erik's patience, too, seemed to be wearing thin (as if he'd had copious amounts of patience anyway). "Again," he ordered. "Your enemy will not move to accommodate you."

_I should not complain…but I do. I did not think that training with a whip… Wait- _A thought struck her. Perhaps she was not meant to extinguish the flame with the breeze from the motion, but with motion itself. Eager to test her hypothesis, she tested the weight of the metal at the narrow tip of her weapon, and then aimed carefully, checking her stance and posture. Erik watched, pleased that she had at last thought her way to success.

She swung the thing with grace, and it wrapped several times around the base of the lit tallow column. In a flash, the candle was pulled from its holder and winked out, leaving the two of them in total darkness. Erik smirked at her sudden confusion. She was not used to the lack of light.

"Congratulations, Christine. You've managed to put out the ghost light." She picked up on his banter and smiled in the direction his voice was coming from.

"And do I now suffer a curse, and bring about the return of the Phantom?" A low growl sounded in her ear, and she shivered- though she wasn't sure it was out of fear.

"You've heard those stories, have you?" He could see her shaking and looking for him in vain; it served as another reminder that she was completely under his control.

"I have." She heard him reply from where she knew the balcony seats to be.

"Then you know that the Opera Ghost has killed… Does that not frighten you, Christine?" He sounded grave, and somehow vulnerable. _Is he speaking of himself, or of the presence of this Ghost? _Nevertheless, she replied boldly, speaking this time towards the balconies.

"It does not." _How concise she is now, when she cannot but answer in this night! _"It is not right to kill, but…"

"'But'?" This time his voice flowed down from the catwalks and the rafters. Christine's eyes darted, sightless, up to the pulleys and lights, but to no avail. He was not there, or anywhere. "What makes you uncertain that the Ghost is a ghost by judgment and right?" Erik was frightened of her answer, in truth. For truth it was, and her truth had the ability to crush him, heart and soul.

"I am uncertain because anyone in the Ghost's place would have done the same…even I. Therefore, the Ghost is human, and as a human, has a right to life, liberty, and-" He cut her off, terrified and grateful for the cover of darkness.

"Care?" Her next word shocked him to the core. He, too, trembled at the implications of her words. He was no longer a confident, genius playwright and composer, but subject to her whim, a feather under the weight of her words.

"Love." With that, he succumbed completely and took her into his arms, so grateful for her understanding that nothing could pry her from him, not enemy, or weapon, or plot.

A ray of candlelight burst from the door to the halls and dormitories. Erik paid no mind, and did not let go. To his delight, Christine did not seem to mind at all, as she was holding him equally tight, for she had decided, at last, not to let interruptions stop her time with her…friend?

"M. Erik," Mme. Giry's voice said in her steady, determined tone, "you are needed. Your students have decided to take justice into their own hands. Philippe, Duc d'Orleans, will fall."

…

Marcus, Anna, Eter, Artur, Meg, Nadir, Mme. Giry, and Salim had gathered in one of the many back rooms of the opera. This one, unlike the others, was empty of old props and costumes, and well-lit by lanterns (which Artur still avoided touching, as he could not be convinced that they were truly safe to hold).

The room was warm, and Eter was slowly nodding off in Artur's arms. She looked like a child in his arms, though everyone who'd seen her knives knew differently. Anna found humor in this, smirking every once in a while.

"Y'two're certainly comfortable, aren' yeh?" Artur glared and held his precious friend closer, as if to protect her from the redhead's mocking words. They had reached a silent agreement: to wait to share their hearts until they both were ready. Anna had no right to interfere with their relationship.

"She is. I am. We are. Have you an issue with this?" he probed, raising a dark eyebrow and making the burn scars over his eyelid almost glow in the dim light. Anna was about to give one of her characteristically saucy replies, but Erik and Christine entered and took their seats on a large crate. Eter sat up straight; she had been awake the whole time, but no one minded.

Marcus surprised everyone by speaking first. "My dogs brought back this paper when I sent them after the spy; M. Erik, you were aware of a spy planted in this establishment, were you not?" He held up an official-looking document to the light in the center of the circle of seats to make the type of document clear. It was a deed, and it appeared to be the deed to the Paris Opera House.

"Impossible," Meg breathed. She grasped Salim's hand as if it could somehow anchor her to reality. Christine bit her fist and swallowed. Who had gotten a hold of the deed, and just how much power did he have in the opera to get the deed so easily?

Erik snatched the paper away and examined it for himself. "It's a fake. 'Signed, Philippe d'Orleans,' it says." He looked to Marcus suspiciously. "I was not aware of a spy. However, now that I am, give me reason to believe it is not you who gives away the opera's secrets." The growl in his voice warned the young man not to cross him; he would know if Marcus lied by omission or otherwise.

The baritone didn't miss a beat in his defense. "If you look at the top left corner, you'll see the teeth marks of a small dog. In addition, that is indeed the duke's signature and seal. Why would I lie about what I am certain of?" Erik looked for the proof of truth and found it. He nodded his agreement.

"Continue." Nadir stood to draw attention.

"We have reason to believe that the duke means to take this opera through this fake deed, and that because he has faked it flawlessly, he has the original." Salim continued as the people in the room absorbed the information.

"He also has full control of the police, which explains why they haven't done anything to stop him. I know this through my family ties." An accented, alert voice spoke up as if coming to a revelation.

"What is he after?" Eter asked, practically squinting with interest and bewilderment. "He cannot be after only ownership if he chooses to win the police to his side. Also, that prison place that Meg came from was full of people, was it not?" She glanced at the ballerina for confirmation.

"It was- mostly his enemies, from what I could tell, but there were innocents there too." Anna took a long gulp from a glass of sherry and burped. Nadir tried not to flinch at the intensity of the alcohol on her breath.

"I say it's some sort'v maneuvering f'money. Nobles'r always after tha'…exceptin' Salim here, o'course," she reasoned, raising her glass to the young baron. "No, I know wha' 'e's after," she added as an afterthought. Meg looked up, startled and hoping no one would see her blush or understand the meaning behind the Irishwoman's words.

Erik scowled behind his mask. There had been two kidnapping attempts, one of them partially successful. Philippe could not be after Meg or an unknown, poor stagehand, but he could understand if the duke was after Christine. However, that did not seem logical. _He's probably looking for leverage, or a ransom…but he could get far more money by simply owning the opera. _He absently rubbed his gloved hands together, still somewhat distracted by the memory of Christine's embrace just a few minutes earlier.

Artur was also scowling, though his expression was quite a bit less intimidating than Erik's. He spoke, gaining everyone's full attention, as his voice was too deep not to be audible. "Whatever he wants, it cannot be good. He has already hurt and killed, and it is right to mete out justice on him…but we will not be able to take action unless we know what he wants and when he intends to have it."

Mme. Giry sighed heavily. "Does this mean catching the spy?"

Erik smiled, for this task suited his skill set, and he was eager to revive the old days of cooperation between him and Nadir. The Persian shook his head, also smiling. "It does indeed."


	13. Chapter 13: Typhoid

**Chapter 13: Typhoid**

Morning light broke over the Paris skyline. Salim heard something expensive break downstairs as he sat up in his bed. _Infernal dishes…I think that someday I will invent dishes that do not break in my housekeeper's shaky hands…or else carve some out of wood. _He stood, and feeling stronger than ever, and stretched. He felt tall and calm as he opened the sliding door and stepped out onto the balcony. There, three stories below his feet, Paris' shops and restaurants were slowly coming to life.

Recently, he had taken more time to appreciate the air he breathed. Perhaps it was because he breathed it anew, and didn't have an asthma attack every time he went outside. He stretched his arms far above his head and took in the various scents of the morning on the grounds of his manor.

Perhaps he appreciated life more in general because he was sure he was in love now, and the woman he'd fallen for (and would fall for a hundred times over) was on her way to come riding with him.

The visit was not for amusement alone; the police needed some interrogating of their own. Why had they not taken action despite Mme. Giry's numerous pleas?

Perhaps a visit from an eyewitness would open their eyes…or expose their guilt. With Meg there, they would not be able to deny that Philippe needed to be jailed and worse, perhaps even executed.

Salim leaned forward against the metal railing, and was thrilled that he did not feel vertigo as he had so many times before. The sunrise now reached far into the streets with rosy fingers, reflecting off cobblestones and glass windows. Reluctantly, he turned away from the pleasant view and returned to the indoors. His sliding door seemed to flow closed automatically at his touch, and the curtains did not trip him as they had so many times in the past. His body was no longer his enemy.

_I should thank M. Erik_, he thought as he changed into a proper shirt and trousers. He did not want to appear overly formal, but neither did he wish to humiliate himself by dressing inappropriately for a public outing. He chose a warm black coat, but didn't bother to throw it on; he was in no rush, and he didn't plan to make his time with Meg stiff by appearing too eager. In fact, he was almost sure that he did not want this day to end, even if it had only just begun.

A few minutes later, as he walked about with ice crunching under his shoes, he discovered that he disliked hats as well as stiff coats, for the wind blew his own away and forced him to sprint all the way to the front gates.

Meg was standing there. She leapt backwards to catch the flying piece of felt, turned a somersault, and landed on her feet again, the hat safely in her hands. Her dress and long coat were completely unruffled, but her hair did not seem to like obeying its restrictive pins. "Good morning," she greeted him as she stepped forward and handed back the object. "I must admit, you've surprised me. I did not think you would be ready at this early hour."

"And you've surprised me as well. Where did you learn to fly like that?" he asked, with a smile in his voice. She winked at him, and his heart beat faster at the sight despite her plain clothes.

"A dog taught me," she replied. "You haven't eaten yet, have you? I was rather hoping we could have breakfast together." To her relief, Salim seemed only too happy to comply.

…

Eter liked to fight. At least, she knew she was quite good at the art and could hold her own in almost any situation… She did not enjoy the kill. The kill made her physically sick and depressed- she knew because of her friend's death back in the Ottoman Empire.

Hayvan had been good to her in the beginning, almost a father, and a trusted friend; and then he was different. Perhaps it had been his blindness that frustrated him, or the fact that he relied on Eter for everything. In that last year before she'd run away, she had been little more than a tool.

Now, however, she knew she would need practice; her intuition told her that there would be violence soon. Her knives were sharpened and drawn for the sparring ahead of her, for Artur had agreed to let her take out her tension on something other than crates and old furniture.

They had not had breakfast, but the cold air whisked the sleep from their eyes. Artur breathed out slowly, and Eter stopped to admire the striking figure he cut in the morning light, even without formal clothes and combed hair. He looked like a giant out of a fairy tale, one that could grab the sun out of the sky and extinguish it. And, like a giant that sees not what he steps on, he did not notice Eter's admiring look. Instead, he turned around and faced his opponent.

"Are you ready?"

"I am when you are."

In the next few minutes, a crowd gathered outside the opera to watch the two. Whispers floated through the air- what barbaric land did this girl come from to have earned to fight so savagely? And this man, why did he not make it easy for the female to win? Was she really female? It was questionable, with her tied hair and boys' trousers on.

Their focus was of steel. Neither one noticed the multitude, which by now had started to cheer. Each blow was perfect and exhilarating, even though they kept the practice safe; no edges were used, and no vulnerability taken advantage of.

That is, until someone shouted an insult: "Unfeminine bitch!"

Artur's staff came down towards her head in a basic attack, which should have been blocked easily, but she turned around, eyes alight with fury at the uncouth man who'd spoken. She sliced upwards to meet the wooden weapon, but her focus was on the true offender, and not on her dearest friend.

The blade cut through the skin of his forearm. Blood, red and dark, flowed out, and Artur flinched, clenching his teeth against the urge to yell in pain. For Eter, the world went silent. She froze with the crowd. _He is hurt. I hurt him. _The crowd grew silent. They had not expected real wounds.

She unfroze and clamped her hand over the accidental wound. The red liquid still seeped through her fingers, just as tears seeped from her eyes. The few people who remained watching were amazed at the tenderness with which this tall man treated the petite being that had cut his arm open.

"Artur…" She could not meet his eyes. She felt his pulse, soft under her fingers; the stickiness of his life's fluid through his thick wool shirt accused and condemned her. The grass crunched, and ice melted as he knelt to her level.

"Look at me," he said. It was not a command or a request. It was a plea- and at his word, she could not but obey. "Do not blame yourself. I am not hurt." The tears were wiped away by his large left hand.

"I need to get back. I know how to fix this," she babbled. He pressed a finger to her lips to silence her.

"Let me take you there." Take her there he did, cradling her in on one arm as she held tight around his neck and shoulders, blotting away her eyes' excretions with the fabric of his vest. He carried her all the way to the kitchens.

The cooks did not seem to notice them, and the various sounds of food being made or preserved rushed about their ears. That was all very well, since the two did not seem to notice the noise either. Their world was impenetrable.

Eter pushed him to make him sit at one of the tables and hurried to get a rag and hot water. It took only a moment to soak the cloth and wring it. "I will not let my carelessness pain you any longer." She looked up at him for his consent, holding out the wet rag. The pain reached his eyes even though his arm did not tremble. His gaze flicked downwards for a second, then away. She began cleaning.

The bleeding stopped easily, and she saw just now that it was a shallow cut, and nothing essential had been damaged. Still, she held his arm for the sheer comfort of being able to do so. Impulsively, she pressed a kiss to the laceration, but pulled away immediately when she felt him tremble.

The bandaging was done quickly, using a binding that had held the knife on her calf in place. Artur savored every moment of it. He had held back such cravings for touch, dulled his feelings, but he was a man, and could resist only so long. Each gentle stroke of her fingers left trails of sensitivity, eating away at his will.

He pulled her down to sit next to him, so close that he could feel her tense up. His arm, heavy and comforting, went around her now familiarly small frame.

"I will finish this game." He rested his eyes on her oval face, her many-ringed ears, and at last on her dark eyes. "May I kiss you, G-zha Eter?" She nodded slowly.

They kissed, and it was as if they had finally found home- somewhere where no one would beat them, or force them to fight, or punish them for what they believed right and good. Their world? It consisted of each other.

They didn't even notice as Marcus walked in on them. He raised an eyebrow in disbelief. Love did not wait until spring, apparently. He had come in for breakfast, but decided he'd wait until lunch. Watching couples was sickening. It was decided then and there that he'd never allow himself to slip into such immodest conduct.

…

"What do you mean, 'you don't know anything'?! There are people dying in that hellhole, and as far as I can tell, you refuse to lift a finger in rescuing them!" Meg ranted, digging her index into the chief of police's uniform and snagging it with a long nail. He was a portly little man, sweaty as a hog under the ballerina's accusations, and in her opinion, very much a blockhead. Salim didn't encourage Meg's shouting, but neither did her stop her. The lazy officer was getting exactly what he deserved. "As far as I can tell, you're leaving them there on purpose!"

She hooked a finger into her victim's double chin, forcing him to look her in the eye. "You had best answer me honestly now. If you lie to my face, I will know." Salim muffled a chuckle as Meg tightened her grip on the flap of skin and fat. The chief looked more like a pig ready for slaughter than a government official. He began to stammer and his eyes darted everywhere but to Meg's eyes.

"I- I know n-noth-thing!" He pulled himself from Meg's grasp (which left red lines on what could be seen of his neck) and brushed himself off. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some business in my office to attend to." He scurried down the hall of the police station as if it was his mission in life to avoid intimidating dancers.

Meg gave a frustrated grimace and huffed. "Eyewitness indeed. Really, the man must be blind!" Salim chuckled. "What are you laughing at?"

"Nothing." He sighed and smiled at her, holding out his arm. "Shall we go?"

"Not until you tell me what you laughed at," she insisted. "I can't have my future husband making a fool of me seven days a week!" He gathered two bits of information: she knew about the arrangements he'd made, and she had no qualms about marrying him. A shocked silence stopped the playful conversation as Meg realized just what she'd said.

"How did you find out?" he asked softly, lowering his arm to his side again to slip his hand into his coat pocket.

"My mother told me a year ago. She wanted me to know that every other person who courted me would not be the one I'd be bound to, that everything else was temporary." She played with the cloth of her skirts, wrinkling the fabric as she avoided eye contact. He, too, looked elsewhere as if he could diffuse the awkwardness by focusing on something else.

"I feel rather like I've taken too much of your life." His chuckle turned dry, and Meg found that she didn't like when his jokes turned dead.

"Don't say that. You haven't taken my life- only begun it." That got his attention. Suddenly, he was smiling again, like the sun after a bout of sleet.

"Well, I'm glad you think that. Would you wear this? Just to make it official?" He pulled a ring out of his pocket, one with a sapphire that matched his own. _I'll have to thank Nadir for returning my ring; otherwise this one would never have been finished on time!_

Meg took the piece of jewelry and slipped it onto her left hand. "It was official long ago, I think. We just have all the time in the world now to fall in love."

Inside the chief of police's office, Philippe rested his feet on the expensive mahogany desk and glared across the room at the unfortunate officer. "Do you know nothing?!" He punctuated his sentence with a pound on the table that shook the whole room. "First you let that slut of a dancer go without arresting the bastard baron for rape, then you go ahead and tell her that you 'don't know anything,' which really means that you do know something!" he roared, causing the policeman to tremble at the force of his anger. Then the duke sighed heavily and ran his fingers through his hair, seeming to calm momentarily. "However, by now, I think you were telling the truth- you are an idiot. I should have replaced you long ago." He returned to his seat and put his feet up again.

"M. le duc d'Orleans, please, do not replace me! You have replaced the chief three times in the last month!" the officer reasoned, trying to appeal to this tyrant's sense of status and logic. "The public will know something's up, and I'll lose the men's loyalty! You would start a war!" The noble who was most definitely not noble only smirked.

"I am fain to start a war with our neighbor Germany. They've grown too powerful anyway."

…

Marcus watched the various stagehands, dancers, staff, and crews come and go throughout the opera house, just as he had for the last three hours. Or, at least, he had been pretending to watch the people. He was, in reality, looking for one man in particular: the spy.

At the other corner of the stage, to his left, stood Nadir, who was also on the lookout for the suspect. He had also enlisted Anna to search, as it took one to know one, but she was nowhere to be seen at the moment. The general hum of people working to repair props, parts of the lighting, and trapdoors for the upcoming season was suddenly interrupted by the trademark tap of a cane; Mme. Giry and Anna exited the managerial office, both of them looking extremely confused.

"I don' understand't. 'S no' logical to jus' suddenly return 'n important paper like this." Anna read the sheet over again. Satisfied that it was no counterfeit, she turned it over to the Madame and sighed. Her hand shook slightly, and she felt a bit weak, but she decided to ignore it.

Complete abstinence from alcohol was taking its toll on her. She had not had anything to drink but water since the previous night, and now she had a headache so severe that Marcus' voice only sounded like a distant thunder. In addition to this, she had been forced to use the lavatory (for both vomiting and excretion) three times in the space of the last five hours. _Doctor's orders, 'e says…well, I ain' seen a doctor'n all m'time 'ere, and blast if M. Erik's a real one as well as ventriloquist, tutor, composer, and magician._

She had also gone to the kitchens several times to get her large flask refilled. If she couldn't drink something strong for real, she could at least look like it. She liked to think of it as her last bit of defiance against Erik's command: no alcohol.

"It is logical, actually," Marcus was saying. "The spy is guilty, so he returned the deed. That also proves that he is still at the opera, and that Philippe has not fired him yet…or that Philippe knows nothing of his missing fake deed." Nadir nodded in agreement. _Bloody headache. Can't hear a word, don't know what they're saying, don't care. _Her stomach churned again, and her skin felt as if it would itch right off her body. The pounding headache morphed into spikes driving into her skull and behind her eyes.

"It also implies that-"

Anna cut him off and took a seat, suddenly exhausted and feeling that the room was swaying. "Enough wi' th'deductive reasons an' catch th'man already! All y'can do wi'out 'im is go 'round'n circles!" _My head cannot take any more of this bloody nonsense. _She at last gained everyone's undivided attention by vomiting (again) into the neighboring seat as her innards heaved.

For once, there was blessed silence…mostly because everything had faded into to the darkness of unconsciousness for the formerly strong pickpocket.

…

She awoke again in her dorm, with Nadir standing over her, looking more concerned than ever she'd seen him. Everything felt unbearably cold and sticky, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't seem to lift her heavy limbs and sit up. She tried to speak, but for once, her tongue was drunk, and stumbled over the words. Nadir put a finger to her lips. _No use without her sharp tongue if…when she recovers. _He had to keep himself optimistic, as he had learned with Erik; otherwise, he would not survive.

"You're not well, Anna. Erik will take care of you." The woman's eyelids fluttered weakly. She at last managed to speak.

"What's 'e say I'm down wi'?" Erik's voice sounded from the door.

"Typhus. Nadir, both of us will be caring for Anna. In fact, you are quarantined with her because you were the first one exposed." The contralto singer almost sat up in surprise. Her voice was hoarse, and she was tired, but she managed to croak out a single word:

"How?" Erik rather enjoyed the expression on his friend's face as he divulged the information.

"Nadir carried you back here. He was quite gentle about it, too." This caused a red hue to show through the Daroga's dark coloration.

"Only because Marcus couldn't and Mme. Giry wouldn't! As for 'gentle,' I didn't want your vomit on my jacket, thank you very much." Weak as she was, Anna winked and pointed at his face. Nadir let his fingers run over the scratches she'd given him with the baron's ring.

"Y'didn' need t'do tha'. Y'coulda woke me an' lemme walk t'my own sickbed." Erik smirked at her façade of toughness. _Nadir, if you can survive her sharp tongue until she is well, I will officially count you as immortal._

"Actually, Marcus couldn't, Mme. Giry wouldn't, and I found myself occupied with incinerating that seat you left your digestive fluids on; outside, of course." _And flirting with Christine while he's at it_, Anna thought to herself. _Really, he should just kiss her and get it over with. He can't beat around the bush forever…_

Her half-closed, clammy eyes drifted to Nadir's face. The red hue was suddenly gone, replaced by a slightly greenish look. "Do I truly have to stay in here until she's better?" he asked, realizing for the first time the implications of his situation. Erik almost laughed at the plaintive expression, and would have if it were not a life and death situation. The mood shifted as quickly as it had been created.

"Until she's better, as you and I play doctor to that insufferable thief, true…or until she's dead." A grim expression came over his entire person. "Until you are both dead." He left the room, presumably to bathe thoroughly and dispose of his clothes. Nadir breathed in a sigh of what he now knew to be contaminated air.

"Both dead? Well, that won't take long…though in this case, I believe I'm more likely to be killed by fever than by a knife in the back." Anna, weak and exhausted as she was, smirked.

"Don' be s'sure, copper. I could still steal y'shoes off y'feet if I wanted t'do't." Her roommate laid back on what had been Christine's bed and inwardly prepared himself for the symptoms of typhoid fever.

"No, I think you would more likely steal the breath from my lungs and the steadiness from my innards. Unintentionally, of course." He turned and studied her profile for a moment. _Perhaps she would do it intentionally, just to prove a point. _After almost a week of having been acquainted with Anna, he had gained a respect for her…the sort of respect he held for only the boldest criminals- and she fit this criteria, because she stole from him every day. _I'm not entirely sure I would not enjoy her thievery of my…functions and faculties. _She kept her eyes closed, and her breathing was growing steadier, but he still heard her loud and clear:

"Look a' y'feet, Copper."

"'Copper'?"

"Look a' y'feet." He was growing impatient with her. Was his nickname derived from his skin tone?

"Not until you tell me what 'Copper' means." A few seconds passed. She was asleep. He looked at his feet and rolled his eyes, but couldn't help but smile. _One-upped again._ He wiggled his toes and glanced under Anna's bed. The tips of his boots peeked from beneath the blue blanket. _This is going to be the longest stay in one room of your life…so you'd best get comfortable, Nadir Khan._

A last query crossed his mind before he succumbed to the humid air and slept. _Just what _does_ 'Copper' mean?_

…

Christine chewed at her finger, just as angst simultaneously chewed at her mind. _What if Erik's infected as well? He could die… _She immediately shoved that particular thought from her head. The best thing to do was to wait and see, not predict death. The best thing to do was hope, just as she still hoped for her father…even though it was not likely that he was still alive.

From what Meg had said, the prison was only well- kept in its halls. The cells were left to the prisoners to maintain.

Erik emerged from the borrowed dorm room, still buttoning his new white shirt. "Ah. I see you waited for me."

"I- I was worried." She self-consciously removed her finger from her mouth and folded her hands.

"What for, _cher_?" He placed his hands on his hips and waited, with his mismatched eyes compassionate. _She looks so beautiful in her blue dress…no black, no more mourning. _Blue suited her, he decided. It brought out her eyes' true, glowing brilliance. _She could easily pass for the goddess Nyx in that deep navy color…yes, Nyx in her youth at the beginning of time._

"Whom, you mean… I am worried for my father. I know, even though you will bring him back, it's possible that he might not live much longer, and…" Her words drifted off for a moment as she stopped herself. Erik dared take her hands in his again. He had left his gloves in the room on purpose, and he savored the sensation of her small, warm hands in his.

"I will bring him back. You shall see what the master magician can do, Christine," he said as he produced a dove from her hand. The tame bird cooed softly and landed in the girl's nest of curls. "Who else are you worried for? You needn't be so." She smiled, and was about to reply, but Marcus came from up the hall. Premature lines showed on his face.

"M. Erik, you had best come and look at this."

"Why? How urgently am I needed?" _Interrupted yet again. Perhaps I should adjust myself to these sudden intrusions._

"There- one of the water barrels in the kitchen is contaminated." The measure of urgency required suddenly did not matter. "The barrels are all refilled from the same pump at the same time, and only one is dirty. Either this is a terrible accident, or the spy has attempted to poison someone- most likely someone other than Anna."


	14. Chapter 14: The Definition of Love

**Chapter 14: The Definition of Love**

Ciara Fascha Daestro was unknown to most people, and preferred it that way. She had been an odd child, to say the least; blind, mute, albino, and freakishly able to recreate any music she heard. Philippe had taken her in, made her feel at home when not even her parents consented to her presence. They were embarrassed to have created her, whereas Philippe had regarded her as a useful person, a friend. Acceptance was addicting, even when it meant training with every imaginable weapon, animal, and situation.

The ability to communicate, too, was like a drug. She had developed a code using a piano that she used to 'speak' with her employer and guardian. Each bit of ivory and wood was branded with a letter, a letter that she felt with the tips of her fingers- just another example of his love and care for her, despite his close-minded parents. She had long since memorized this code, and so had he, giving way to cacophonous and rapid conversation punctuated and expressed through dynamics and every human emotion she felt. Those exchanges could last for hours, distracting them from meals and sleep. Philippe was clumsier than she at the keys, but very clear, and best of all, understanding. It was his courtesy to her, to 'speak' her 'language' when she understood French perfectly well.

As a young teen and a child, they had often abandoned formal dinners or luncheons and walked the city's streets, and she would take in the sights, tastes, smells, sounds, and textures at the market; the best of friends, and she knew it was true. The feel of his hands always told her what he felt, along with other bodily signs. It had been especially embarrassing for him to start puberty and have her detecting sweat and the slight changes of scent (plus an elevated heart rate) whenever he spotted the girl he liked.

They took their lessons together, much to the tutor's distaste, and found their odd quirks- she was far more adept with numbers and architecture, while he excelled in law, essays, and literature. On the field, though, all was equal in their fights. Well, not in the practical sense- she always won.

Becoming young adults, they had had to separate their rooms even though they shared one as siblings often do. Yet they still played together, fighting for sport and for skill. It was a beautiful thing, for her, to have such life amongst nobles even if she was always hidden away because of Philippe's parents.

Over the years, the duke had given her affection, shelter, and clothing; he acknowledged her rights as if she were a normal girl and even treated her as more than a female to be looked down upon. He was brother, companion, and trainer to her. Every day and without fail, he sparred with her (even though she was a slight, thin thing) and drilled her with weapons. Together, they completed complex acrobatic routines and tested the range and accuracy of her senses of smell, touch, and hearing. Now, as she saw her friend less and less often and became lonely, she still tested herself. If one did not know better, she would appear to have perfect vision. Her debt to him was one impossible to be paid.

Now he was doing something important, he told her, but refused to tell exactly what, and became more and more shut away the more she asked him. Lately he had been cold and hard- she sensed it in his temperature and pulse- and he was not the warm, loving person she'd known before this important thing. Perhaps it was greed that stole away his innocent, playful personality. Perhaps it was the fact that he was royalty, supposed to be all grown up, and on the edge of war with the whole of Europe. Perhaps it was all these things combined.

Perhaps he had changed irreversibly… His mannerisms were different now, too. Before, he had not minded getting dirty with mud, sweat, grass, and the smell of horses. Now, he was always clean, and said it was out of courtesy, but she knew it was because he hid something terrible in both scent and moral.

Ciara plinked out two small, plaintive questions at her piano: _Why is he different? Is he still my friend? _She played the chords that corresponded to her mental cries, repeating them over and over as in a fugue. If he walked in now, he would not be able to understand her, as he had only relative pitch, not perfect pitch. The meaning of her notes would escape him unless he saw the keys and deciphered them one by one. Sometimes that was a problem- he could not tell the depth of her hurt and concern.

Slowly, the sequence grew in volume and length, and she added counts and measures to each phrase. It didn't sound like a song, but her musical speech was rarely ever pleasing to the ear. Everything blurred together and echoed as she pressed the rightmost and center pedals with her small, boot-clad feet. It was easier not to listen to the specific notes of her misery.

The quiet tap of another shoe at her door stopped her hands. She lifted the pedal and spelled out, _I know you are there. What is wrong?_

"All these years, and I still can't approach you without getting caught." Philippe's voice was tense, strained from holding back stress and anger. Why did he not play to her, as he normally did? "I need-"

He was cut off by loud, staccato playing as her hands flew over the keys. This time he recognized the sequence, for it was one he had heard for years. _Understand me. Watch the keys. _It was something she had said over and over again, but once in a while, he forgot. It was familiar, but different this time. She played it mournfully, like a sigh. _Play for me._

He sat next to her on the bench. She repeated herself: _What is wrong?_ A pause. _Play your answer. Please. _He nodded slowly, but she felt his side tense by hers. He had not used this mode of communication for a week, and it made her anxious for their bond, and for him. He who was close to her was now closed to her.

_I need you to do something for me. _

_It's part of the important thing, is it not?_

_It is. _She sniffed cautiously, detecting something foreign and pungent.

_You smell different. That is most definitely not your usual cologne. _She paused again, then: _Human feces, a sick human, at that. Not your style at all. _It was her attempt to reestablish lost trust with an inside joke. He didn't laugh. Instead, as his hand reached for the keys, she held it with two fingers at his wrist. He was trying to lie. Her intent changed, although her face did not. _Philippe. _His name was a gentle pattern, ending in a soft C4 sharp. _You are hiding from me._

_All will be revealed in time. I only need you to bring someone to me. _She tried to interject, but he seized her hands urgently in one of his and continued. _Please, Ciara. I need him for this business. It is of monumental importance._

_You promise to tell me everything when I catch him? _The ending of the phrase clearly expressed her worry.

_I promise. _That was all the proof she needed, because she trusted him far more than she knew was healthy. The next notes were determined and purposeful. She would find out what her friend had been doing all this time.

_Who do you need? I will bring him._

…

_Ciara's skin prickled as the breeze picked up. She could hear the grass rustle around her. The birds were cooing and singing gently, and the sun was warm on the ground at the edges of the courtyard. She did not feel it on her skin, for she was carefully shaded at all times. The doctors told her different, but she knew that exposure shortened her lifespan. Therefore, for her comfort alone, Philippe, dear heart that he was, had ordered that the courtyard be shaded in its entirety._

_ They would be training today, in spite of all the monarchs' protests against their son fighting a girl with the sure shame of losing. She had been gifted with speed, stealth, flexibility beyond his, and an intimate knowledge of the human body and its weak points. However, today was not the day for these things._

_Today would be a test of her strength, and for once, she was completely confident that she would not win. It was a simple exercise: draw a line and keep Philippe from crossing it without hitting, flipping, using a weapon, or pressing one of the weak points she knew existed on every human being. True, she could bring him to his knees with a bit of pressure to a very sensitive nerve in his arm, but it was a hobby of hers to perfect everything in her combat, including brute strength._

_Today was a bet, as well. If he crossed the line, she was to go to a formal dinner with him, dance with him, and act as his lover for the entirety of the evening. Truth be told, she did not want to act the evening. She would not act the evening. She would be his lover for the evening, even if it killed her to know that it was all a lie._

_She would know it in his heartbeat and in his scent, every time they went out to the parks or the market together and she held his arm, even if she needed no guide. His pulse would rise, and he smelled of some sweetness on his skin that she could not get enough of, even if she knew it was not for her. He was quiet then, and he slowed his walk, and she knew he was watching that someone- _her,_ the girl he obviously loved_. _Then he would always take several deep breaths, and the sweet, musky smell would fade, and his pulse would return to normal. He would always ask her a question, then, always something about what she thought of him. He would be tense when he asked this, fighting not to betray something to her. Obviously he had talked to this girl, and wanted to know how to proceed. She always answered that he was her very best friend, or something along those lines._

_And he would know that she was hiding something from him too, but he never acknowledged it. Perhaps his subconscious knew it, and he didn't. Sometimes Ciara hoped he would dream about her, and come to her in the night to speak the truth with her- but that was her dream, not his._

_Besides, what did she know of love? Friendship was quite familiar to her, to laugh and talk together; when did that turn into a deeper feeling, into the mystery of love? How did one define love? Was it to derive intense happiness and want, or to be obsessed with the person? Was it to be overtaken and possessed by that strange, unconscious behavior that Philippe exhibited when he saw that girl she was so jealous of?_

_She sensed him coming, but dared not turn around. It was a warm day, and she knew he would be shirtless. He knew she couldn't see him, but that didn't matter, and he didn't know it. It was poisoning her, really, to keep him from what she knew, but it was the sweetest, most heartbreaking poison, and she was addicted because she did not want to ruin their long friendship with something as extreme as a gesture of love…but what was that, anyway?_

_"Daydreaming, Snow White? Not your style at all." She turned around and smiled in his direction. The use of her nickname was amusing to her. She was not a princess or the victim of an evil queen…and not at all kissable. She pointed at the ground in front of her, where she'd chalked the paving stones next to the water fountain. The line extended up the strange sculpture- tiers of stairs with rivulets falling into a moat- and all the way across the courtyard. "I see you've upped the stakes. If I win, you take a swim, correct?"_

_She nodded._

_"Well, shall we begin?" His entire person seemed focused on winning. Philippe knew he could not let her win. He was not going to the dance alone._

_Thankfully, that night, he did not have to, because he won and took the strange-looking girl with him, in her elegant, gold and green gown- but he had to content himself with the fact that Ciara, his best friend, would do anything for him except love him._

…

Philippe and Ciara took the city in as they had so many times in the past. Now they were older, now they had kept their hearts guarded for nigh on a decade, he because he was to marry someone else, and she because he could not love her now, not when he was doing something so 'important'. "You know what to do?" he asked. She nodded her pixyish head of white hair and blinked at him with blind, iridescent red eyes.

"Then go." She obeyed and went as she was told. He took a moment to appreciate her figure through the form-fitting, black combat clothes he'd had fashioned for her. Then he turned around and walked the other way.

He didn't have time for an affair, especially when he could not marry her. _Why not?_ He pushed the thought aside. She might have all the education, physical prowess, inborn cleverness, and talent for politics, but he could not have her. It was a rule more heavily placed on his family than anyone's. He was to marry one of noble blood, not an undocumented, abandoned orphan.

Besides, he had a prison to run, foreigners to interrogate, people to torture, and after that, a thorough bath to take. She had almost discovered him from the smell of dung at the edge of his boot during their conversation. He could not risk that. He would lose his best spy…and his best friend.

His feet took him to his office among the various shops, a legal office- with illegal papers in it. The irony of it made him smile. Something shifted and creaked inside, and he frowned. _Those creatures need food, unfortunately. I had best check on them._

He unlocked the building and entered, then locked the door behind him. It did not do to let his guard slip. He made his way to the back and slid the bookshelf back against the corner, and it moved quite easily in the grooves he'd made in the floor. An eager, loud purring was heard. The beasts' master was come. Slowly, so as not to upset them, he retrieved a slab of preserved meat from a barrel in the corner of the dark secret office and set it down on the ground, watching as his pets devoured their meal. When they were done, he methodically checked the bolts in the wall. If they escaped, all of France would hunt them down.

He patted each on the head, feeling the healthy, glossed fur and much pride for his work in raising them. His twin panthers stretched and yawned in unison. In a way, he envied them. They were inseparable, never fought, and loved and protected one another, just as many human siblings did. They were unbiased, innocent, and he pitied them because they would not be for much longer if the worst happened and he had to set them on someone.

_No…it should not come to that. Ciara will do her job. She always does. She is my friend. I can trust her to do what needs doing._

…

Ciara was not sure if listening to a chorus rehearsal and tuning a spare piano was part of her job. It was an amusement, for sure, but it had nothing to do with what Philippe had told her to do. She simply loved to listen to the music. It was therapy, and it took her mind off of her troubles (aka Philippe d'Orleans and his strange behavior).

A wire twanged against her fingers. She played the note again, tightened it, and tested it for the third time- just right. It was not just the sound that told her when an instrument was in good condition, it was the feel of the vibrations. Was this the way piano tuners tuned their instruments? Probably not, but for her, it worked, and it was stress relief.

"Erik, where are you taking me?" She whirled about. _Two people, female and male…yes, these are the two I am to separate, by their voices and scents. _She tucked herself into an empty cello case and carefully closed it, leaving only a crack so as not to muffle any conversation. The soprano voice spoke again as the door opened. "A piano? You have an organ in your home and you chose a back room for our lunch?" A laugh sounded from Christine, and Erik watched his beloved's throat move. Every part of her was beautiful, and she didn't know it or didn't care.

_She loves him! _Ciara's red eyes widened though they could not see. _And he loves her…I can smell it. She wears rose and lavender perfume for him, and some expensive cosmetics. _Love itself could have stabbed her in the eye and it would not have been any more real. _So love makes you want to better yourself…_

"It occurred to me yesterday that everything and everyone seems intent on interrupting us. I don't intend for that to happen this time, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it might," Erik replied, setting down a plate of food on the small table. "I also chose this room because…" A swishing sound and the sting of ash filled the air. This girl, Christine, gasped a happy breath.

"A fireplace! But where does the flue lead?"

"What do you think all those statues on the roof are for, and the thick stone columns all throughout the opera?" Both began to laugh. _Love seems to make them happy, too. Or is it that they are friends and laugh together as I do- did- with Philippe? _It was painful for 'Mlle. Daestro', as the duke had begun to call her in his professional moments or with guests of a political nature around. Where was that fine line between friendship and the romantic sort of love?

A merry, crackling fire was lit, and unlike a funeral pyre or a candle or the roaring, monstrous fires that Ciara was familiar with, this one seemed to laugh along with the two people who were not stuffed into instrument cases. _Love makes the world better for them._

Ciara stayed in the cello case for the rest of the couple's lunch (it was large enough for her to fold herself into, with her flexibility), which seemed to take about an hour, as they seemed too busy talking or just gazing at one another to eat. Finally, when their plates were finished, the man, Erik, asked, "Christine, what is love? I have thought about this for many years, but having not received very much love, I cannot define it."

After a moment, there was the rustling of a dress and a startled gasp. "I know that to love is to want and need the object of love to be happy." Christine sighed and hoped that the fire had reddened her cheeks enough that there was no change in her skin tone. Inside the case, as uncomfortable as she was, the albino spy and assassin breathed out quietly, thoughtfully. _Do I want to make Philippe happy? Yes, of course… I love him…true? True._

Erik asked a similar question to his listener's. "Do I make you happy?" There was a long pause, as if both could not believe what he had just asked. The spy heard the touch of soft fingertips on slightly rougher skin, on a shaven jaw.

Then: "You do, all the time and every day." The silence stretched longer for a minute or two, gripping Ciara with shadowy claws of suspense. _What are they doing? Do all lovers stay in the same position like this for extended periods of time? Would that not be awkward? _Finally, they moved again, quickly, this time, and… _They have their mouths pressed together? Am I hearing things? Do lovers do this, too, because it feels nice? _Now she knew why it drove her mad to be so near Philippe and his sweet smell and elevated heart rate. Now she knew that she was not crazy to be listening to his speech and breathing so carefully, and to the way he played what he thought for her to decipher.

She wanted to kiss him. _Love is to need the other person to be happy, they said. Well said indeed. I must go and make Philippe happy, then. And then he will love me too._

…

Philippe waited at the grand piano (also branded with letters, as was every piano in the house) in his home for Ciara. He could wait for several days if need be, for she was prone to wandering or staying overnight at her favorite haunts in the marketplace, or some of the shadier taverns. It was practice for her, she said, because he was home late and often too tired to train with her anymore, but that seemed illogical. He knew that she could defeat most anyone in the whole of Europe with her bare hands.

_I wonder…does she go to the tavern for a man-whore to take her to bed? _He stopped and frowned. _That shouldn't bother me. Yes, if she wants her needs sated, she can go anywhere she wants. _Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that if his friend was indeed going to such places for her needs, she should have come to him…so instead of shaking it, he ignored it.

The double doors opened, and he heard her footsteps over the marble floors. Automatically, he moved aside, clearing a space for her at the piano. _Hello, Ciara._

_Hello._

_What did you find out? _Ciara blinked several times as if she had forgotten on her way back, but soon regained clarity and made out a reply.

_This man you wanted me to bring you… _(here she let a note linger for quite some time as she gathered her thoughts) …_he loves a woman. They will be hard to separate, if not impossible. You might try using the woman as bait._

_Already have, _Philippe pressed into the keys with frustration, _and I must admit that it is harder to capture her. She is protected. _He felt the albino's cool, pale hand on his shoulder and breathed deeply, as she had taught him. _Thank you. _At this point, he might have only been seeing what he wanted to see, but a red glow bloomed on her cheeks and she looked the other way to hide. Her expression did not change.

_Why do you need to capture this man? Is he special in some way, for this important business?_ Then she hesitated. _No, you don't have to answer that. I trust you. _She felt him pause, tense next to her again in that way that made her so very anxious to make him relax again. _What's wrong? _He breathed deep again, and she felt his sigh against her cheek and savored it.

_Nothing. Politics is a hassle, _he quipped with his exaggerated dynamics and irregular tempo. _Unlike you, no one is trusting in the political world._

_Thank you. _She trusted so well, yet what he did on a daily basis would destroy that trust if she ever found out. He had to keep her from ever knowing. She was playing again: _You wore that hydrangea stuff again, didn't you? _She wrinkled her thin nose. _Are you trying to make me allergic to you and everything you touch?_

He smiled and shoved her playfully, as when they were young. _Of course not! I enjoy your company, and I wear 'that hydrangea stuff' so you are not repulsed by the sweat from debates with sticky politicians. _A smile was planted on her lips, which were thin and white like the rest of her.

_Whatever makes you happy._


	15. Chapter 15: Love is Blind

**Chapter 15: Love is Blind**

Nadir had had typhoid before. He knew all the signs of recovery, and none of them were showing in Anna. He himself was immune, he knew, but it was very unnerving to have chatted with his roommate and then wake up two days later and find that she was burning up and in a restless, delirious sleep. Erik had checked on her the night before, but even he had not predicted such a desperate battle for life in the strong-willed thief.

Mostly, she muttered what seemed to be nonsense in Gaelic, English, or French, or a mix of all three. Sometimes it wasn't language at all. Nadir pulled up a chair so he could sit next to her, his face drawn with worry. Her once luxurious hair was soaked with sweat, and her pinkish, freckled skin was yellowed like parchment. If she wasn't tossing and turning, she was so still that he feared she'd died.

The door opened, and Erik walked in, clad in plain worker's clothes for once, for he did not fancy burning another finely crafted, custom-made suit and trousers. "Give her this, and if she wakes up, take her to the lavatory. You will need to burn those dirty bedclothes as well. Your chances of survival against polio are not in your favor if she's a carrier." He set a large bowl of steaming broth down on the writing desk, along with a small vial of dark fluid. "Has the medicine taken effect yet?"

"No. You only gave it to her last night. Speaking of polio, must you always be so negative? She will live. She has to." The masked man pretended he had not heard the desperation in his friend's voice and instead pulled his other sentences to pick apart.

"Polio has nothing to do with you finding my take on reality negative." He checked Anna's pulse at her wrist, finding that perhaps it was better if he did not reach for her jugular. If Nadir's voice betrayed any of his true feelings, he would probably object to taking her pulse at her neck.

"Well, I hope your outlook changes soon. How goes your business with the lady?" Erik paused, even though Nadir's voice held none of its usual teasing demeanor. He stood and began preparing the medicine, avoiding eye contact and instead looking towards the small mirror on the wardrobe's door. His white mask seemed different, more ordinary with a poor man's clothing to go with it.

"We kissed." A cough and loud spluttering was heard from Nadir as he looked up in astonishment. "Don't have a seizure, Daroga, I was surprised as well," he sighed, running a finger over his lips for the tenth time since the day before. He turned his attention back to the medicine, diluting it in order to make it easier to swallow.

"Congratulations, you've found someone who's different. Forgive me if I seem uncaring at the moment, but…Anna cannot be having a nice time all holed up in her head." _He obviously cares for her, but will she take kindly to him standing over her when she wakes up? _"I am happy for you, truly." Nadir gave him a tired but honest smile.

"Different indeed. Perhaps when she wakes, Anna can be the person who is different for you." He winked at his friend and gestured at the medicine and broth. "She can only wake up, though, if you feed her the formula, and it would be merciful to administer that stuff while she is unconscious. Trust me; she'll thank you for it later."

"Since when have I trusted you, scoundrel?" Erik chuckled. Nadir's spirits were successfully lifted. "I may trust you to sweep your lady off her feet, but why should I trust you when you give me advice about mine?"

"Ah, so you do have a lady? I was not aware that you had any romantic intentions towards anyone," he teased, "let alone a criminal. You should be ashamed of yourself, Daroga, deviating from the straight and narrow. Or did you have a dark side all along?" Nadir smirked.

"Do I need to gag you?"

"You'd need to catch me first, so I do not think you would be able to. No, the only person who will ever catch me is Christine," he sighed dreamily, leaning back against the door. "And I don't care if she can hear us right now, because it's true." His suspicions were confirmed by a rustle of cloth and the sounds of retreating shoes.

"And with what weapons does she catch the mighty and fearsome Dark Angel?" The policeman was delighted to see his friend's half-covered face light up with joy and longing as he stared off into some imaginary paradise.

"She captured him with her rosy lips and interminable kindness to his poor, tortured soul." Erik's eyes darted to the olive-skinned man as the Turk motioned for him to keep his voice down.

"Does she know anything more than the Ghost stories?"

"No. I know we must discuss it eventually, but…not yet."

When Erik emerged from the unofficial sickbay, Christine was pacing just outside the door. He held her in place, disrupting her anxious pattern. "You'd best not pace so much, _cher._ It might wear holes in your pretty dancing shoes," he warned, playfully referencing The Twelve Dancing Princesses. "I wouldn't want you to hurt your feet dancing with me." She looked down at her feet, which were currently wearing a pair of very comfortable ballet flats, and smiled. He always made her smile, and she couldn't help it.

"Will I dance with you, then, kind monsieur? I can't very well dance holes into my shoes without a partner, now can I?" she asked, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Kiss me again?"

Up in the rafters, balanced carefully in the crook where beams connected, Ciara listened to the conversation with interest. _Kiss her? Does he mean…? _A soft hum of pleasure floated up to her perch, muffled by the fact that their mouths were yet again pressed together. _Oh, he does mean that… I wonder how a kiss feels. Very nice, I would think, to be able to pull sounds from them involuntarily. _She absently ran her fingers over her own bleached cheek and bottom lip.

Then her relaxed, curious expression gave way to cold focus, and she stood up on the wide beams. _Stay focused. You are here to capture M. Erik, not daydream. You can please Philippe this way. _She made her way through the support beams and slid down the inside of the drawn fire curtain, senses trained on her target as he ducked into a dressing room to change, wash, and burn his contaminated clothes.

…

Marcus knew where the spy was. The only problem was that he was in the open, and any attempt at nabbing the culprit now would result in panic and probably his own arrest, as he intended to use a firearm.

He could see the odd individual now, trying to look busy by fixing the wrinkles in the curtains and testing various pulleys. The fire curtain seemed to dance as he fiddled with it. Then he seemed to trip, fall backwards, and proceed to look surprised about it and not right himself and continue oiling gears and the like. _He is surprised that he tripped on the curtain when he was stepping all over it? Probably a clumsy lout._

Marcus, who was, at present, leaning against the back wall behind various scenes, glanced again at the fire curtain. It was still, and the spy had retreated backstage, probably to fiddle with the hanging props and moveable balconies. _Time for some action. _He discreetly loaded his pistol with blanks, so that no one could be hurt, and followed the enemy. The gun was slipped into his pocket.

He did not know he was being followed, and Marcus was too focused to accept an invitation to sit with someone during lunch or respond to a joke. He picked his way through the props, people, and strange, miscellaneous things that had been left lying around, eyes following the back of the man's head. _Where is he going?_

The spy at last climbed two floors up and settled into a corner. No one was in the hallways. The hums of conversation and clanks of machinery could be heard below, and light streamed in through tall, murky windows. _Safe. _The tenacious baritone almost rounded a corner, but ducked back in time. He wanted to surprise his quarry, and have the desired effect of fear. It would be easier to threaten and have the suspect come willingly than get into a fight.

He was confused, when he stepped into the light and leveled the pistol's barrel at the spy's head. The man was reading a book, and looked so engaged that he did not notice the weapon pointed at him. Marcus could not think of anything to say other than "Monsieur, you have a gun pointed at your head."

His victim looked up slowly. Upon seeing that there was indeed a gun pointed at him, he scrambled to his feet and dropped the book. "Come with me. We have quite a lot to discuss, namely your career as a spy for the duke."

A few floors down, Erik could not believe he had been so fortunate to receive and reciprocate not just one, but two kisses from the same woman within the space of twenty-four hours. His good fortune was intensified by the fact that he was absolutely in love with the one who'd kissed him. When he reluctantly released Christine from the kiss, he frowned suddenly and she could see the worry on his visible face.

"What is it, Erik?" She ran her hand over his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him. _Is it his mask? He should know that I would not have kissed him if I was worried about what's behind the mask._

"Now that we've kissed, is it official now? Am I a suitor?" She let out a relieved sigh in reply.

"Of course. What else would you be to me? All you need is my father's consent, and…" Her voice faded away. _Pappa must be here in order to give his consent. He must at least know I am alive, and I might find out something from the spy. _Erik was speaking to her again.

"I keep my promises, Christine. I will bring back your father, and find out why the duke took him. He will pay for tormenting you so." The hardness in her voice surprised him.

"Good. He deserves life in prison for all the people he's killed in that dark hold." _Then what do I deserve, for being a wanton killer? I have taken hundreds of lives…so I must deserve death, or torture. _The thought disturbed him greatly. "I would go outside now, and practice with this," she said, fiddling with her whip. She had tied it about her waist like a belt. _It suits her. It shows that she is not weak or petty._ "Care to join me? I look forward to seeing some deep lashes across Philippe d'Orleans' pampered face."

"Of course, Christine." He loved to say her name, and loved the way it sounded, even in the most ordinary moments. It was a beautiful name, but his mind was elsewhere. His mind was twenty-one years in the past, in the Ottoman Empire.

…

_Erik, at thirteen years old, felt no guilt over one foreigner's life, even if that foreigner was from his original country of France. France was not his home. No place was._

_ He crept into one of the guest apartments in the sultan's palace, eyes narrowed and ears open for any sound. His team was not with him tonight, for if anyone saw any of them the night before the discovery of the body, they would be arrested and probably executed for the sake of satisfying the people._

_ It was a lavish room- silk sheets and curtains, polished wood and brass, and embers burning low in a granite fireplace. The minimal light was enough to see by, and Erik saw the steady rise and fall of his assignment's breathing. The ones he killed were not people, really. He had shut out that idea for years now. It was easier if the people were just objects to be disposed of._

_ He stepped slowly towards the bed, flipping open a vial of neurotoxin. Poetic justice, really, to dispose of this political enemy just as people had done in Shakespeare's time. His work, of course, was a little more scientific. Once injected, the venom would overload the politician's nerves. If anyone attempted autopsy, it would seem as if he'd had a heart attack; entirely plausible, really, for a man of his age and stress levels._

_ He attached the needle to the vial and quickly stabbed it into the man's neck. The risk of being found out was increased, but it would be a quicker death. Within seconds, the doomed man's body began to tremble and sweat as he gasped for air. Erik turned away. It was better not to watch them die. Watching would only distract him and make him soft._

_ As he turned to leave the way he came (through a passage in the wall), a small, terrified gasp sounded from behind the door that joined the room to another. He made the mistake of looking. His mask showed in the small amount of firelight. There was a young woman standing there, pale enough that even her hair was a light yellow, and about six months pregnant. She swallowed and closed the door, unsure of how to react to the fact that a young boy had just killed her father._

_ Erik decided to leave before things got messy or the woman decided to attack him. It would look especially bad for the sultan if he came back scathed in any way. With no further delay, he ducked out of the room, the secret door closing with barely a click._

_ Once back in his own quarters, he stopped to think. It was not the first time he'd seen a pregnant woman, but it was the first time he'd realized that babies were meant to replace the deceased. The woman would doubtless be grieving, or calling the guards assigned her for help. Perhaps she would be stressed and go into labor, and require medical assistance._

_He was jealous of that unborn child, for a moment. He or she would have a caring mother and probably a father waiting back in France. It would be unmarred, a perfect, beautiful little life made of love and sustained by a mother who actually cared enough to suckle it. Then it would grow to be strong, and if not handsome or comely, at least normal._

_He quickly stamped out the jealousy and closed his eyes to the darkness of his room. It was dark, of course, but no darker than the black when he opened his eyes again. It was not darker than the day would be, and no darker than it seemed each day of his entire life would be._

_Still, he had what he needed, and someone needed him. It was good to be needed, even if it was for dirty work. He had his talents, and the sultan was willing to turn a blind eye to his face and pay him for his work- magical entertainment, design, and assassination._

I have everything, _he said to himself, _and I need no more.

_Yet he could not sleep comfortably, for something was missing. Something was always missing._

_In the guest apartments, the young woman screamed for help, and with regret that her father would not see his grandchild. Erik shut her cries out and forced himself to sleep._

…

Two women walked through the hallways of the opera, heading in the general direction of the kitchens. Well, they walked and talked, more specifically. More specifically still, one begged and the other denied.

"Eter, do you truly believe me the kind to kiss and tell? For the last time, I do not wish to divulge the experience! It is to be kept private!" Christine insisted to her friend, giggling all the while. Eter tugged on the soprano's arm and gave her a classic puppy-dog look.

"Please? I told you about Artur and me! You owe me!" Eter whined, looking for the entire world like a child begging her mother for a piece of candy.

"I never asked for a story about you and your lover; please, leave me alone about mine!" she said, pulling her arm away. "At any rate, I have more weighty matters to think about. My father must be here, safe, before Erik can officially court me."

"I know. Marcus told me that he would catch the spy today and find out what he could," Eter replied, sighing. "It must be torture for you, not knowing what will happen and having to wait for so long to catch one person- and that'll be just the beginning."

"It is not so hard, not when I have hope…and Erik." At this, the shorter girl looked up at her companion thoughtfully.

"He makes you smile. See? You're smiling right now." Christine blinked as if coming out of a reverie, then nodded in agreement.

"He makes me smile, and seems amazed by the fact that he can do so."

"Well, then, he must faint in shock every time you kiss him!" They opened the door to the kitchens and strolled in. Erik calmly glided in after them, listening from about five feet behind with great interest, just as he had been for the last half hour.

"Oh no, not at all," Christine was saying. "He is very composed, I think; he is the one who initiates it," she explained. Erik could see the tips of her ears turning pink. The mezzo singer's smugness could be felt even as she seated herself next to Artur for her evening meal.

"See? You are divulging the experience, and I haven't asked you about it for the last two minutes!" Her companion's cheeks began to match the shade of her ears.

"Hush, you!"

"No, please, go on, ladies. This is quite entertaining," Erik's voice said from behind them. "I only hope my Christine is as truthful to you as she is to me." The girls whirled around. His voice was there, but he was not. They turned again and jumped. He was there, sitting across from them and gazing admiringly at Christine's curls.

She had obviously just washed, for they were less unruly and held together quite nicely, reflecting the light of numerous lanterns and cook fires. It was as if fate had arranged their personal candlelight dinner.

Eter was delighted, and immediately snuggled up close to Artur. "You've spoken about it? Even better!" Artur put his arm around her and kissed the top of her head, but otherwise remained quiet. He seemed more in favor of simply holding his woman instead of chattering idly. Erik glanced at the two for a moment. Artur's face was scarred. In fact, half of it seemed abnormally colored and rough; yet Eter had no qualms about it, or about kissing him in public. _If Christine were the only one in the world who could stand to kiss me without my mask, I would be content._

He looked back at Christine, with her rose-colored lips and pink cheeks, and wondered how he had failed to notice how beautiful she looked during dinnertime. She was saying something, and he was looking at her eyes and perfect mouth, but he didn't hear a word. "…are you… Is there something on my face?" He chuckled as she ran her tongue over her teeth in order to cleanse them of any food that might have gotten lodged in her gums.

"No, Christine, there is nothing on your face. I simply enjoy taking in the sight of the woman I shall never tire of." They spent the evening talking comfortably, yet he dared not take her hand, not with so many people around them to watch. He was not ashamed of her. No, on the contrary, he was proud to have attracted the company of such a beautiful, unique young woman. He only hesitated because she might not want to appear frivolous or loose.

Christine was fixated by his eyes. She had heard a legend before, of the god Horus, who had one gold eye and one silver eye, just as Erik had- one for the sun and one for the moon. _Quite fitting, truly, for in a few short weeks, he has become my heaven, just as my father is the earth I stand on._

…

Ciara arrived back at Philippe's mansion late that night, having needed some time to breathe the cold night air and clear her thoughts. However, when she entered the sitting room, there was Philippe, and her muddled thoughts returned with just as much persistence and confusion as before. _It is as if he was meant to keep me under a spell._

His scent tonight was driving her towards him, and she had to forcibly slow her walk. He smelled like leather and wine, two things that would normally clash, but in him, seemed perfectly natural. He plinked out a simple sentence. _Where have you been?_

She sat down next to him, turning her face upwards towards his so that he knew she understood. _I broke up a brawl at the tavern. None of them will use their left hands for the next month. _She was pleased when she heard his laugh, but heard something else in it: envy. _Are you jealous that you didn't get in on any of the action? I know you've been itching for a fight._

He gave a half-truth answer. _Yes, actually. I would like to exhaust myself physically, not mentally. _He did want to be exhausted, and he was tired of the mental strain of paperwork and the complaints of displaced tenants. However, he desired a different exercise, and a different way to release the tension. Perhaps it was his constant nearness to Ciara that sparked this. He pushed the urge away. It would be offensive to her, and maybe even drive her away completely. Then again, if she saw it within her rights to stay out late and perhaps pay for favors in a bar-full of sketchy men, what was to stop her from being with him for just a few hours?

_It is late, but I do not tire this night. Would you like to spar for a while? It will help you rest. _She rested her hand on his shoulder, secretly taking pride in his build. Before he had learned to fight with her, he had been naught but skin and bones. Now he was tall, fast, and strong, and it was her doing.

_No, not tonight, _he keyed in, regretting his words the moment they sounded. _It would be good, though, to work the kinks out of my shoulders. I will return the favor, if you wish. _Thankfully, she seemed pleased with the idea.

_I would like that. On the couch, please. _They had done this many times before, after they were sore from whatever drill they had practiced. Still, as familiar as the gesture was between two as close as siblings, during the late hours it was more of an opportunity to touch one another than either cared to admit. Philippe obligingly laid himself on his stomach for her, and she set to work on his back.

He was glad that he had blown all the candles out, for Ciara had no need of them, and he did not want to move from his place on the wide leather couch.

He sighed as she kneaded her way down his spine. It was hard work, the revenge business, but he was glad she did not know exactly what he did with his time to be so fatigued every day. If he told her, she would stop him. If she found out through her spying at the opera, she might just let him go through with his endeavor. He would not stop until M. Erik was utterly destroyed.

The massage grew so relaxing that he found himself struggling to stay awake, but it was over all too soon. The leather groaned slightly as his weight was removed from it and replaced with Ciara's. She cushioned her head on her hands and breathed slowly as he undid knots formed in her fight and allowed her tightened, wiry muscles to loosen. Philippe did not know when she fell asleep, but he suspected she had succumbed just after he had finished all the work that was necessary and moved on to simply stroking her back.

He draped his coat over her and moved her so that she could rest in a more comfortable position, on her side, with a real pillow under her head. Then he took a long moment, letting his hands remain at her shoulders, to lean down close enough to let a stray strand of his hair touch the whiteness of hers. She had often said to him that every person had a unique scent.

After pulling away, he decided that what she had told him was true. She smelled of incense and sweet grass, and he wished the smell would stay with him longer than a few moments. It was just possible, in the near future, that he might win her…but no, not him, He was a brother, probably, not her lover. Still, it was good to live for her, and better still that he might die for her. Perhaps she would love him then.


	16. Chapter 16: Kidnapped!

**Chapter 16: Kidnapped!**

Ciara had heard the somewhat amorous couple's discussion. It confused her instead of clearing her thinking; why would Philippe imprison that girl's father, and was it so awful that she was willing to forever scar Philippe's face for her sense of justice? Surely he couldn't be doing something quite so heinous… Or could he?

Her troubled thoughts returned. This important thing he had to do had taken much of his time for several months. It was entirely possible for him to convert a warehouse into a prison and fill it with his enemies in that span of time. Why would he do such a thing? Did he want to take this M. Erik prisoner too? If so, why was he more important than the girl's father? She had never heard him mention an old man.

Was this some huge misunderstanding that he had failed to explain to her? She certainly hoped so. _He said he would tell me when I caught M. Erik. He keeps his promises, especially promises to me. He will be glad that I brought him the man, and be pleased with me. And then it will be good again, and we might be together as couples are. _She hung onto this desperate hope even as she lay half-awake on the couch, surrounded by his scent and his coat. It made her feel safe. Her fears slowly drained away, though not completely.

_There is an explanation for this. There is an explanation for everything. _She slowly became aware of a hand at her waist, a large, warm hand- Philippe's hand. He seemed to have fallen asleep next to her- or had he laid himself next to her after she'd fallen asleep? She did not know, and at the moment, did not care in the least. It was peaceful to be held by him, unlike their usual contact of locks, holds, and painful blows. She listened to his breath sweeping over her shoulder, unseeing eyes closed, for it was less tiring and less irritating for the useless orbs of tissue to be protected.

His heartbeat was steady and relaxed. _Perhaps he was tired and needed rest more than he needed his own bed. _She knew she should rise, and wake him as well, but it was too comfortable in his arms for logic and will to take over. Even a slight hunger could not entice her to rise. Unfortunately, because it was late in the morning, Philippe rose first and left her feeling quite cold. He thought she was still asleep. He walked, running his hands through his hair in the quiet.

_I cannot tell her. She would become like me, eaten alive from the inside out. It is better for me to go down the path of revenge than her. _He looked at the piano where they'd had so many of their conversations. _She's asleep. I can tell her, or rehearse how I will tell her what I feel. _Slowly, quietly, he strode over to the instrument and took a seat. Then he looked back to make sure she was not feigning sleep as she often did if she felt lazy and didn't want to move. She appeared to be sleeping, and her breathing was steady.

_Ciara,_ he played, but stopped for a moment. What could he say to his best friend, practical sister, and one love? Yes, even though he had learned at a brothel and was not untouched or pure in any way, his heart was hers. It was a frightening thought. She controlled him and didn't know it. _I do what I must for your benefit, so you will not have to suffer under all the wrongs people have done you. I know that you are, at the moment, quite unaware of what they do because you are different, or what was done to make you different, but still I do what must be done- what is just and what these people deserve. I- _He stopped when he heard her stirring, stretching her thin self with a soft, round-mouthed yawn. It was best to address her directly now that she was awake. _Good morning._

He turned around and saw her pacing towards him with an amused smile, eyes opened. She looked as if she was not blind at all. Sometimes he had to remind himself that she was, and couldn't read like he did. Indeed, it had been a long time since he had read her a story or played music for her. She pulled her mussed white hair out of her face and sat next to him. _Good morning to you, too. Am I to attempt the capture again?_

_ No, not today. Today, try and find M. Erik alone, or when he is most vulnerable._

_ Is that all? I found that out yesterday. _Philippe smiled to himself. Of course she would think ahead of him.

_When is he at his most vulnerable? _Ciara placed her hand over his, not knowing quite why she desired the contact. To her joy, he did not mind the light touch.

_He is most vulnerable when he is with the woman Christine Daae. I could catch her, and if you would be so kind as to have a carriage waiting at the entrance, I could take her with me. He will follow her._

_ You are sure? Will you be safe? _His concern was touching, but she needed none of it. Retrieving one woman would be easy and easier still when she did not have to hide. In fact, it was necessary that someone see the kidnapping.

_Yes, and I will be quite safe. You need not worry for me. I know exactly what I'm doing. _He was tempted to say that she did not know what she was doing, and he did; however, he refrained from revealing this fact. It was essential that only he know, or Ciara would become consumed with revenge for her own satisfaction. It was better to shield her from the pain.

_I know you do. Come, we will ride there together._

…

Nadir sighed. Anna's condition had not deteriorated, thank goodness, but neither had she gotten any better. In fact, now she was talking in her sleep, and hardly noticed his presence when he helped her with normally private activities like changing and washing. He was slowly becoming attached to his seat by her bed, and his back hurt from leaning forward at all hours.

"How are they doing?" It was Christine outside, asking about Anna and him, bless her. Erik's voice came floating through as well.

"Nadir is fine, as healthy as ever, but worried; Anna's condition has stabilized, but she's no better. It's up to her to fight the sickness." He stepped through the door. Christine called through to him.

"They will live, I'm sure. I'll meet you later, on the roof." Then she walked away, shoes soft on the wooden floor. Erik looked back at the closed portal for a moment and smiled.

"Over here, lover boy. Someone else needs you too, and a great deal more urgently," Nadir announced, placing his hand over Anna's feverish one. The masked man turned around, a half-smirk on his face.

"Would that be you, Daroga? I highly doubt you need me for anything other than the occasional nagging session." He set Anna's dose of medicine and her soup on the desk, as before, and handed Nadir a bucket of cool water so he could mop her forehead and face with something cleaner than the water from the day before. He didn't notice the mock venomous look that was shot his way for his comment. "You should take a few drops of the medicine every now and then, since you're likely carrying the germs as well. It would prevent the spread of the fever."

"No." Erik turned around and gave his friend a curious look.

"Why not?" Nadir had kept his eyes down, on the redhead's sweating, burning face.

"Anna needs it. If I take any, she might not get all she needs." That was all the explanation he needed.

_He wants her to recover. He might even love her. _"I'll feed her the medicine today. Go have your date with the lady," Nadir said. "Don't worry about us." The composer nodded his thanks to his old friend and couldn't get out of the room fast enough. The Turk man smiled knowingly. Love never waited for anything, least of all other errands.

Erik hurried to his borrowed dorm and burned his clothes, as was his routine. His wash was rushed, but he made sure no bit of skin was left unclean. Christine could not catch the fever from him. He would not allow it. _Perhaps she arranged the meeting on the roof for the view of the city. This is, after all, one of Paris' tallest buildings. _The thought made him smile. This would be their first truly scenic time together.

He practically ran up the five flights of stairs to the roof, only just pulling on his black leather gloves. When he reached his destination, he heard it in terrifying clarity: Christine's scream for help.

…

_Erik watched the train clank and heave as it headed for Europe with the pale, pregnant woman. She had first exhausted herself by futilely trying to claw his eyes out, then been pulled away by his guards to be shipped back to France. It had taken a few months to sort out the train schedules and go through the paperwork involving safe passage, but now it was resolved, and she was on her way home._

_He wasn't supposed to be at the train station at all. No doubt Nadir would be waiting for him back at the palace or the troops' training grounds._

_ The last few cars rolled by. _Perhaps it is time for a change of scenery. I always wanted to see my parents' crypt. _He took a running start and snagged the railing of the caboose, knocking over several people as he went. The train station and the Ottoman Empire faded from sight._

_ Erik wove his way into an empty baggage compartment, the one closest the passenger cars, and settled down to wait._

_ It was about daybreak when an agonized scream tore through his murky, bloodied dreams. A cry rose up from someone else's throat: "Get a doctor!" _The woman must be giving birth. _He crossed into the passenger car and hid behind the door, ear pressed to the wall to listen._

_ As the hours trickled by, the cries were weaker, as if the mother had little energy left. He received the distinct impression from the desperate dialogue that she would die despite the doctor's assistance. _What do I care? I killed her father, and there is nothing else that needs doing. _He was about to cross back to his place in the baggage car when the door to the passenger compartments opened._

_ "Sir?" A boy, younger than Erik and obviously the doctor's assistant (by the blood at the edge of his shirt), tugged at the edge of his coat. _Of course. _His height and covered face made him look like a man, not a young teen. "Sir, if you can help us in any way, please... There is a woman in the next car, and she's dying, and every experienced person has tried to help her." Erik considered this for a moment. _My assignment was to kill her father, not her child as well. Perhaps it is only logical to complete the assignment. If word spreads that she and her child died, the French may seek compensation_, he reasoned. He turned around and strode silently into the car._

_ The woman was too weak to even notice his presence. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing heavier than it should have been. The doctor, too, barely noticed him as he approached. In fact, the man looked to have given up, his head buried in his hands. The boy went over to comfort him. "Doctor, I brought help. He will help us."_

_ "No, he cannot. Don't you see, boy? She's dying; she is in God's hands now." Erik ignored the quiet, sad conversation and checked the woman's pulse, then pressed gently at two points- one between her index and thumb, and another near her shin. There was no change. _It must work. _The lady was crying again, a slightly stronger yell of pain. He pressed the points again. The doctor rushed to his side, flustered face suddenly hopeful._

_ "Quick, Mme. Daestro, push! You will not die today!" he shouted, almost to himself. "The baby will not die today!"_

_ Several more minutes, and the child's head was showing. The rest of the birth would go smoothly. _My work is done. War is avoided. _Yet he still could not drown out the tiny spark of pride- he could do a little good, bring a life into the world rather than extinguish it._

_ He stayed in the baggage car for the remainder of the trip, listening vaguely to the sounds of mother and child together. The baby girl was a quiet one, and cried very little, so he always found restful nights, unlike the ones back in the sultan's palace. Sometimes it struck him as odd that the baby did not cry at all times, but perhaps she got along well with her mother. Then again, he knew next to nothing about infants…_

_ At last, the day came when the train pulled into Paris' train station with a bang and several long, loud whistles. He watched for the mother and the baby with the baggage car's door opened just a crack. They were making their way out onto the street. The pale woman was easy to see by her dark dress and light hair as she quickened her pace. Her daughter's face was covered by the blanket. It reminded Erik of his mask for a moment, but perhaps she only wanted to protect the little one's face from the sun._

_He eventually lost sight of her in the crowds, and closed the door, once again shutting himself into the darkness._

…

"Erik!" He scrambled to reach the roof, but he was just a moment too late. The kidnapper, a lithe-looking individual with a black veil over her face, drew a razor thin blade from her hip and held it at his beloved's delicate neck. She dragged Christine slowly towards the stone railing with careful, methodical steps. "Erik, help me!" The knife nicked her skin as she screamed her throat ragged for him. A droplet of her blood leaked onto the metal.

Erik slowly reached for his lasso, only to find that the strange, black-shrouded agent put more pressure on her weapon as he did so. He gritted his teeth, finding himself helpless. The tall, unknown female hoisted Christine high over her shoulder, and he could see that her hands had been bound. _She did not have the opportunity to draw her whip._ There they teetered, one too terrified to move, and the other holding her so very effortlessly that she reminded Erik of himself with some of his past victims. _Good God above… _For the first time in his life, he found himself praying, and with great urgency, no less. _Save her._

The soprano was also currently praying for her life and desperately confessing should she die of a cut throat or the five-story drop below. She couldn't decide whether to close her eyes or keep them open for fear. If she spoke, she would disturb the delicate balance and most certainly make the both of them topple over to their deaths. _Our Father, who art in Heaven… _Her heart thudded in her throat, almost stopping her breathing.

The strange, near-inhuman being had tied her hands and thrown her whip aside almost before she had known what was happening. This person, obviously working for the duke, had been upon her, waiting, before she had ever heard the crunch of footsteps on ice or pebbles. _I have been captured by someone as skilled as Erik, or better. _The thought paralyzed her.

Erik could only watch in horror as the agile kidnapper took a deliberate step backwards and fell so quickly that she disappeared- so quickly that Christine disappeared as well. He heard her whoop of fear as she fell, and ran forward. The person had tied a rope to one of the statues as an anchor, and slid down it with one hand onto the roof of a waiting carriage. _Fool! You should have never left her alone! They had this all planned! _He took note of the direction the carriage had gone. His suspicions were confirmed; they were heading for Philippe's mansion.

Christine felt the thud of her landing knock the wind from her lungs and cut her shriek off. Immediately, she struggled to her knees and attempted to kick out at her captor, but she was nowhere to be seen. Then, amidst the crowds of Paris that didn't notice, the carriage door opened and the girl was yanked unceremoniously inside.

She immediately righted herself on the cushioned seat and struggled against her bonds, but the odd woman, completely covered in black that covered every inch of skin, tied her feet and shoved a gag into her mouth. No more screaming now; any more fighting would be useless. Still, her wrists squirmed in pain and rebellion against the situation, against the unfairness of it all. Her bright blue eyes narrowed in hate, and she kicked at the carriage's wooden door. _I want out! Erik, you must find me!_

Slowly, the thin limb of her rather intimidating kidnapper snaked forward with index extended. The finger, thin even with the leather glove around it, wagged slowly at her. The glint of steel showed again as the knife was drawn and placed across black-wrapped, almost skinny legs. _Erik…you must find me._

Erik was plotting to do just that. The carriage was exactly the same as all the other cabs, so there was no use following it. He already knew where it had gone. He descended another five stories down to his armory and slipped a pistol into each pocket, packets of poison up his sleeves, and a dirk to his side just to be safe. Then he ascended through the tunnels to where he knew Marcus had gathered the people he knew he could trust to devote themselves to bringing his Christine back.

…

Ciara tried to discern what the woman Christine was feeling- anger, yes, but there was no sweat of fear, or quickened breathing of hysteria. She found that she rather respected the girl for this- or was it she who was the girl? _She has seen and done so much more than I have. She has experienced love._

She considered the cruelty of what she was doing for a moment. Was it really right to take someone away from the one they loved, and to use them to lure the other? Of course not…but it was for Philippe, the one that she herself loved. Surely that motive deserved some credit. _But what is Philippe doing this for, exactly? He played when he thought me asleep this morning- he said what he did was for me. How? I must be connected to M. Erik somehow…has he done me wrong? I do not recognize him from long ago…_

She decided it was best to wait and find out why Philippe was doing what he did. _I trust him. He would do nothing that hurts me._

The coach slowed gradually, and stopped. There was a soft rustle as Christine leaned to look out the window. "Ngh amm ee hrrr?" She got no answer. "Trrr ee!" she demanded, kicking out and struggling against the ties about her feet. _She does not like to be the victim. I wish I could somehow tell her: I cannot speak, though I understand. She will know why we are here soon enough, and so will I._

Ciara undid the rope at Christine's feet and took her by the arm. She would not escape. They walked to the mansion's door together, up the stone steps and into the front room. Her captive was confused by her silence and the almost gentle way she led her, instead of hauling her roughly. Once inside, she held up her hand in a silent command. _Wait. _She lifted the black hood from her face and heard Christine's gasp.

_She is so white, and her eyes are red…do I look upon a strange demon, or is she simply different, as Erik is with his mask? She must be different- otherwise she would have treated me badly. _Christine took the oddly colored individual in. Her hair, as white as the ice outside, was tied back into a tight braid, not a strand out of place. The black she wore only served to make her look paler than death, and blue veins showed through her translucent skin. She was beautiful- but beautiful as a weapon is, beautiful like dew on the sharpened edge of a hunting knife.

A plinking of piano keys distracted her for a moment. In the next room was the duke, as imposing and tall and wealthy as she remembered. He turned around and addressed her: "Christine Daae, it is a pleasure to meet you. Was your journey comfortable?" Then he smiled a fake, white-toothed smile, but there was something missing from his face. The cruelty that had been present at the opera was gone. "Oh, forgive my rudeness. I should not have spoken when you cannot at the moment."

He walked towards her. "You should know that you are not my true target." Her eyes widened in horror. _Erik. No. _"You know now, though, do you not?" _What could he possibly want Erik for? He is a composer and a singer, not a political enemy! _"Ciara, ungag her, please."

The pale person, Ciara, eased the gag from her mouth to let her speak. She noticed that she did not yank harshly at the cloth. It occurred to her that aside from pulling her into the carriage, the white-haired individual had not abused her in any way, even when she put up a fight. _Cruelty is not natural to her, and the way she leans towards him, standing tall… What is it between them? _Then she looked a Philippe again. "Damn you."

"Such rough language for a lady, my…" She strode towards him and glared fiercely. "I have all the trump cards here- you cannot win in my world. It is only fair, considering M. Erik's past."

"Past? He owns the opera. What more is there to tell?" As angry as she was, her curiosity was bubbling up. What had Erik done in his life? When she was just a foot away from him, she kicked out. The hard ball of her foot struck his shin. It frustrated her that he only hissed and did not cry out in pain. Suddenly, she felt herself roughly dragged back by the white hands. _Strange…she is hard on me only after I offend her employer._

"Ciara, be careful with the delicate lady," he said, taunting the soprano, "she is bait, and must be in good condition in order to lure our catch." At his word, the callused hands loosened their grip, but still held her back.

"Damn you," Christine spat again. "You deserve hellfire for all you've done."

"Take her upstairs, to one of the guest rooms. She deserves a special place, don't you agree?" Ciara wordlessly (as always) nudged at the brunette and pointed her towards the stairs. It took nothing less than a shove to budge the determined girl from her place, and several more shoves to get her to ascend the stairs. She was silent as well, refusing to scream or show any sign of fear. The blind one was impressed with her fortitude against the circumstances.

As they rounded a corner and entered the first room on the left in the well-lit corridor, the soprano contemplated the relative gentility with which her guard was treating her. It could certainly be a lot worse. She could be where her father was.

_Ciara, her name is Ciara. She does not speak, for some reason… _She watched, curious, as the tall, thin woman deftly locked the door. _She doesn't look at whatever she might be doing, as if she knows where everything is automatically. How many times has she done something like this? Is she hired, or…does she live here, with Philippe?_

She sat herself down on the bed and looked out the thick-paned window. What should have been the courtyard was covered by what looked to be thick canvas membranes. The drop from her window to the covering was only about five feet. _Perhaps I can escape to another room, and from there, out to the city again… _That hope was quickly dashed as her captor retrieved a key from her necklace and locked the shutters, which had openings enough to let light in, but not enough to reach through and smash through the glass. She decided to test the waters.

"Ciara, why do you work for the duke? Can't you see that what he does is wrong?" The enigmatic female, who had disappeared into the lavatory to set up a whatever materials her prisoner might need, immediately turned around and strode past her to the writing desk at the left of the large bed. She did not glance down to find the paper and pen, but grasped them- she already knew where they were.

Christine heard the scratch of the pen against the paper. _So it's not that she refuses to speak…she cannot. _It took a few minutes, but she was obviously writing very little; the strokes were long and careful. The singer stood and watched this mysterious person write. Then it hit her. _She is blind as well! She must have memorized every object's placement…perhaps this is why her eyes are red?_

At last, the paper was handed her, and she scanned the words with something like shock. The writing was messy and shaky, but the meaning was quite clear. The gestures and attitudes in the exchange downstairs suddenly made sense and came together in one flash. She was almost ashamed of herself for having not realized it before.

She looked up at the blind girl, with her abnormal coloration and strong, steely build, and her silence. The red eyes blinked at her, almost as if they were indeed seeing eyes and could register the surprise on her face. She read the sentence over again, just to be sure that she had seen correctly. Then she swallowed back a lump in her throat. "You love him."


	17. Chapter 17: Dresses and Hats

**Chapter 17: Dresses and Hats**

Artur sat down on a crate in what had been unofficially dubbed the conference room. The lantern was still sitting on the floor in the midst of the various boxes and trinkets, and still made him wary. Lanterns seemed volatile things to him- what if it exploded and set the theatre on fire? Eter's presence beside him calmed his suspicion for the moment, but he would never carry one again.

The rest of the performers entered all grave and quiet. Christine's absence left a hole where there would have been light and life. Anna was gone, too, and Nadir. Their banter was something all of them would miss should they not survive their stay in the sick room. Erik waited until everyone was seated to speak.

"You all know by now that Christine has been taken." His voice was flat and emotionless. _Her absence weakens him, and he does not want us to know because he is a leader. A leader must be strong. He is being strong now, to have the courage to direct us. _"The opera has been temporarily vacated; the workers and crews are safe. What I am about to ask of you is not going to be safe or easy. In fact, some of you may die- but Christine is a friend to us all. If you will help me bring the duke to justice, my debt to you all would be eternal." Here his head dipped for a split second, but he held it high again, his mask a warm shade of yellow in the light.

He feared their response. What if none of them helped him and Christine was left in the hands of the duke? He feared for her as well- what if she was being tortured or used as a bed warmer at the moment? There were far too many 'what if's' to worry about, so he shut them out and looked up again.

Surprisingly, the normally quiet Artur was the first to speak. "He means what he says. Have faith in him, and all will be right in the end. I, for one, am not afraid of the duke. He is like any other corrupt person." He nodded at Erik. "I will help you. How hard can it be to retrieve one woman from a house?"

It was unspoken, but understood: wherever Artur went, and whatever he did, Eter would support him. Marcus, who was leaning against the doorframe, looked over the people and counted heads; there were seven of them, if one as old as Mme. Giry could truly be considered able-bodied enough to fight. Then again, he had seen her when she had defended Christine from her first would-be kidnappers. He himself had no weapon but his mind and perception, and he knew himself to have terrible aim with a pistol. That left five people against the entire police force, an unnaturally skilled and agile assassin, any number of armed, paid thugs, and the duke himself. The odds were terrible.

"It can be impossible." Marcus reached out the doorway and pulled the bound and gagged spy, M. Bennue from behind the door. "I would like to introduce to you the guilty spy."

Erik glanced at the rather wary-looking man. The dirty clothes were just recognizable. "No need to introduce him, Marcus. He is quite well-known already," he hissed, seizing the man by his shirt front. "In fact, I believe we will be holding his funeral quite soon."

"No, actually, we will not hold his funeral. He has information, and I'm sure he would be more than willing to share it." Here Marcus glared sidelong at the terrified man. "Is that correct?"

The former spy could only nod, dizzy and scared stiff by Erik's glinting eyes.

"Well?" the composer growled. "Tell all- or would you rather have it worse for you than all the tortures in the duke's prison? I am well-equipped for such things, I'll have you know." He looked back at the spy's captor. "What is his name?"

"Jacques Bennue. He has a wife and son, so if you have any humanity in you, let him go back to them." Erik released the unfortunate man, who stumbled and fell to his knees with a thud.

"I will…when he gives me the information I need," he said, pulling M. Bennue up again. "Do we have an agreement, _spy_?" he hissed.

It took a nudge from the cool-headed baritone to make him speak. "Go on. You will not regret this. In fact, I'm quite sure M. Erik would gladly pay you double your former wages." He received a look from his maestro that made him regret his words. Thankfully, his attention was stolen again as the trembling worker began to speak.

"W-we do monsieur." He glanced around the room, taking in all vengeful and disapproving stares.

"You'd best get on with the telling, then. I could leave you in this room for an hour with the people around you and have them interrogate you. Trust me," he threatened, "they will not be gentle with you."

…

Christine gazed out through the shutters at the setting sun. She could only see the rays of the sun's fire and the pastel clouds above the mansion's high walls. It was beautiful, even when seen from a gilded cage. That's what the mansion was, really. She had been given good food, drink, shelter, and even a piano with which to amuse herself, but she was confined to her room and feeling extremely cramped.

Erik was not there with her. He was probably coming just then, for sure, with Eter and Artur and a few others to subdue Philippe. Hopefully Ciara wouldn't be there to defend him and kill her friends. _The people I know are dead set against each other. I have to do something, but what? _As much as she hated Philippe for taking her captive to snare her Erik, she did not want him dead.

She wanted him to spend a long life in prison. He deserved it. _Then again, what would that do to Ciara? She loves him. It would hurt her; make her a more dangerous enemy than the duke, even. _She did not want anyone to be hurt. Perhaps it was one of her weaknesses. _Either way, someone is scarred, or incarcerated, or killed. _It didn't help at all to be the hostage in the situation.

The lock on the door clicked and squeaked as it swung open, but she did not hear footsteps. _Ciara. She makes no sound, not even when she walks. _"I am not hungry, and I do not fancy new soap, thank you very much." She turned around, and was met with the sight of the blind girl sitting down at the upright piano. Her fingers beckoned, and Christine stepped towards her warily. "Do you play?"

To this, an odd sequence of notes poured out, sounding very much like a broken music box. When the white fingers slid away, she noticed small letters branded into the keys. _So this is how she speaks…_ "Pardon? I didn't quite catch that."

Ciara played the sequence again, this time slower. _Tell me about love._

"Love? If you saw Erik and me, you know about love. Why tell should I tell you more?" She did her best to stamp out the stirrings of sisterly affection she felt for this strange individual. She was so much like a young child, albeit a tall, mature-looking one.

_I love Philippe. I want to make sure he loves me_, came the blunt answer. Christine furrowed her brow in confusion. Sensing her confusion, Ciara clarified: _I want him to love me._

"You cannot force him to love you." _There go my attempts at keeping my distance… _she sighed inwardly. This person's innocent openness and inexperience almost reminded her of herself. _She must have lived a very sheltered life not to know courtship and couples._

_ Is that not what courting is? _Ciara spelled out. Christine raised an eyebrow. Clever girl, she did have a point.

"Then court him. He doesn't seem adverse to the idea." It was best to keep things simple for her. This affair would most likely go flat anyway, what with Philippe and his criminal exploits.

_He does not seem warm to the idea either._

"You can make him warm to the idea."

_How? _Christine sighed. She was supposed to be a prisoner, not a mother or a counselor. _Tell me._

"Be pretty for him." She eyed the black combat clothes Ciara wore. "Have you ever worn a dress, or something that looks even slightly feminine?" _As courteous as my father taught me to act around strangers, these are special circumstances. _The albino tugged at her shirt, suddenly uncomfortable.

_Once. He was not affected._

"How do you know?" Now she paused, unsure and a far cry from the deadly fighter she had been just hours before. "I know you don't think much of appearance, but that's part of the work."

_He knows I think not on appearance. I cannot put on those cosmetics you do._

"Are you going to let me help you or not?" Christine huffed, almost offended. The girl had practically called her vain.

_Why are you helping me? _Ciara played, suspicious. Was this prisoner using her?

"I am helping you because you love him, and no one should have to loves someone who doesn't love them back." That answer was enough. There was honesty in her voice. It amazed her, the sincerity with which her captive spoke. Perhaps listening to her was not completely forbidden, even if Philippe desired that she not fraternize with the enemy.

_What do I have to do?_

…

_The pale woman's name was Charlotte Daestro. She was the daughter of an aristocrat, bred and born for high society and not the dump of an apartment she was currently staying in. She was not living there, but dying._

_ Her daughter, the product of her womb and her late husband, was now two. Little Ciara, she was hid away. Charlotte was not so negligent as to refuse the child a name, nor was she so heartless as to try and kill her child by starvation or exposure. She had named her child and kept her in the back of the apartment, with food and water on a regular basis. She maintained Ciara's cleanliness, kept her from harm, and protected her from contact with those who might corrupt her._

_ It was what she did to satisfy her conscience._

_ She did not love the little girl, and it cost her to keep her when she could barely afford to eat herself. It was impossible to give her away to an orphanage or a convent, as she was blind and looked like a ghost- or even a demon- with her red eyes._

_ It was late afternoon, and the sun shone through the dirty windows of the small kitchen. She had learned early on that her daughter's skin burned the moment it touched the light, so she drew the ragged, dusty curtains closed before she began preparing dinner._

_ She cared for the girl mechanically; in fact, since her father's death, everything had become mechanical. Yes, she had suckled the baby, but wet nurses did that as well, did they not? The toddling so much resembled her father in personality and looks…that had to be it: she was her father reincarnate. The thought made her shudder. Was her father back to haunt her for his untimely death- for her failure to protect him?_

_ At last, dinner (a thin vegetable stew) was ready. She poured it out into one of the two bowls that she owned and trod with heavy steps to the back room. A soft shuffling was heard behind the cracked door. It was inhuman, the way Ciara could sense her meals coming, and move about her small room as if she were not blind. Yet she was blind, for sure- so the doctor said, and so her mother knew, because she could not distinguish between different pieces of paper and flat surfaces._

_ Charlotte opened the door and set the bowl down on the wooden floor, watching emotionlessly as the babe dipped her fingers into the hot food and began scooping it into her mouth. She closed the door, ignoring the soft sniffling and the sound of food spilling. She would clean it up later, when she knew the little thing was asleep and she could avoid contact with her._

_ Times were hard. Because her father had died, and her brothers had inherited all that he'd had, she was left with nothing but the luggage and money from her trip to the Ottoman Empire. Her siblings had resented the fact that she was gifted with political skill and wisdom, and that her father favored her above them. They had their compensation now, when she was dirt poor and cursed with a ghost child. They lived the high life and wiped all record and memory of her existence from their accounts._

_ Just as well that she be an official bastard child, for what good would her title do her now? She could feel herself slowly going mad as well, sinking into depression. Perhaps she belonged in an asylum, but was it true madness that gripped her, or simply frustration? Either way, Ciara could not be left alone and at the mercy of the world. The guilt would drive her insane for sure._

_ She opened the curtains again, and gazed silently out the window at the boys playing in the street. Perhaps she needed another child to pull her back from the brink, and give her something new to care for- or would that only bring more shame on herself for getting pregnant and being unable to care for the baby? No, it was best not to have another child._

_ She drew the curtains again, enclosing herself in the darkness and dust of the attic apartment._

…

Erik frowned. The spy had known only of the legal office and its contents, not the exact layout of the d'Orleans mansion and the exact location of Christine's room. He would have to do a more private search, perhaps even rescue her himself. _I can only hope she is not in pain or hurt in any way. _Stress lines that had disappeared with her appearance now reappeared when she disappeared.

He missed her desperately- her smile, and the smell of her hair, and the way she spoke to him without fear or cold indifference- hence his late-night journey to survey and map the duke's oversized house.

It was not the cold that set a chill in his bones, but the thought that Christine might be used as a bed warmer for the night. It grew more and more likely with each passing minute. With that in mind, he glided up the iron fence and into the estate.

The grass was soft under his feet, ice crystals melting as the soles of his boots compressed them into the damp soil. It took but a minute for him to cross the stretch to the brick walls of the great house. The brickwork was old and eroded with ivy, a simple thing to climb. The mansion was of average size, easy to explore because of its square floor plan. It had but two floors. _That's oddly modest for a royal snob who must be disgustingly rich. He probably owns another mansion in someplace like Venice._

He reached the roof and gazed down into the courtyard- and almost tripped. What should have been an expanse of grass, gardens, and stone pathways were instead layers of white sheets that seemed much closer than the ground. Would they hold his weight? Most likely. He slid to the edge of the roof and took a jump into the swathes of cloth. _What sort of lunatic completely covers his gardens and keeps them from sunlight? _The landing was less than soft, and more than a little startling. The canvas caught him, but he bounced back, unsteady as he was catapulted back into the air. It took reflexes he had not used for several years to right himself, twisting in the air like a cat, in order to keep from snapping his neck. _It does provide adequate protection from the average thief…_

A warm light shone from a room just yards from where he had landed, and Christine's soft voice was heard. "Try and hum. If you can cry, you can certainly hum and speak." She was with someone, but not the duke- who? Curious, he crept closer. A hoarse rasp was heard in reply to her instructions, and then a pattering of piano keys in no particular order- a sequence that sounded frustrated, by the way it was accented and grew louder with each note.

"Touch your throat. Make it vibrate, and for heaven's sake, relax!" Erik positioned himself below her window. She did not sound as if she were distressed, only exasperated. Her heavy sigh was plainly audible as well. Another rasp floated through the window, this time with a tiny, low squeak at the end. Christine nearly squealed with excitement. "You did it!"_ What in the world is she doing? _There was another plinking of the piano.

"Well, how long can you stay here tomorrow without Philippe being suspicious?" _The piano makes speech? The person with her must be mute. Therefore…she was teaching him or her to speak- or at least vocalize. Gullible Christine, to help everyone, including an enemy, but I love her for it. _"Then might I leave the room tomorrow?" Two short, close notes followed. "Why?"

_It is a sort of musical cipher… _The reply this time was longer. Then: "Oh. Well, good evening to you." There was an almost thoughtful pause, but Christine spoke again with a last comment. "Practice. You can speak- I know so." The door closed, the strange mute had left.

Erik immediately stood and pressed his gloved hand against the glass. He knocked. Christine looked up, startled for a moment, and rushed to him, pulling at the locked shutters. He held up a finger. _Wait. _His hand withdrew to extract a small, crooked bit of metal and pick at the latch on the window. It squeaked as it opened outwards, causing a wince on his part.

"Erik!" She reached through the slats of wood and grasped his hand, twisting their fingers together. "How did you get here?" He smirked even as the heat of her skin was absorbed through the leather of his gloves and leaked into his palm.

"I came over the fence, across the lawn, up the wall, and down the other side. Shall we go?" He felt for the lock on the shutters, the metal pick still clutched between his fingers.

"Wait- I cannot go yet." _I long to go with you, Erik, but there are things that need doing- and a person who needs mercy and kindness just as everyone else does._

"Why not? Christine, I fear you are not safe here!" He bowed to kiss her cold fingertips, wishing he could protect her from even the cold.

"No, you are the one who is in danger! Erik, the duke wants you dead, not me!" she said, grasping his arm through the bars of the shutters. "And…the woman, the one who took me- she needs my help. She does not know love- or how to love!"

"What of your father?" This made her visibly flinch, and he immediately regretted his words. Then strength returned to her gaze, and the moonlight revealed the moisture at the corners of her eyes. _My Christine…when did you learn such determination?_

"I have faith in you, Erik. You can rescue him- rescue him first!" Then an idea came to her, and if it succeeded… "I need to find out why the duke hates you so. He must have some link to you. If I can find this out, I can find the way to stop him." His grip on her hand doubled in strength, and she winced, but made no complaint. He sensed the pain from her expression and forced himself to relax…at least, he forced his arm to.

_Is this an enemy from my past? Christine should not have to endure the judgments for my wrongs. _His jaw tightened, and a half-physical illness spread through his gut. What if she found his crimes somehow and hated him? He would surely waste away should she turn from him. "I would not have you know the crimes of my past. You would never trust me." He looked down, not wishing to see her eyes.

"Erik, look at me." Her voice swayed his decision to keep his eyes down. "Please." At her word, he obeyed, and tried to digest the fact that her hand was still in his despite his admission. "I know you. If there was anything wrong- anything- that you did, I will know you in the past, and that the past you is not the present you or the future you."

Erik felt ready to cry. His mismatched eyes, shining bright with salty moisture, met hers through the locked wooden barrier. "You- you are sure?" Christine smiled her reassuring smile and reached farther to touch the bare skin of his bony wrist.

"I am sure." She withdrew her hand and pressed her fingers to her lips, then transferred the kiss to his hand with a light pat. "Go, find my father. He needs rescuing more than I do." _She cannot stay here without a safeguard of some sort._

"On one condition: these shutters will be unlocked." She nodded, with a pleased expression now spreading over her smooth face. He snaked his abnormally thin arm as far as he could through the openings and picked the lock. "I… Good night, Christine." He turned to climb the wall and leave, but the shutters swung open and he was seized around the neck.

It took all his will to avoid striking out in a fit of instinctive defensiveness, but he felt as if he would melt when Christine pulled him forward and pressed her lips to his. _Truly, I thought the woman was traditionally the one to receive kisses…but this is just as good, I believe. _He held her as close as he dared (and as close as the window's frame would allow). She released him, breathless, after about ten seconds. Up close, she could see the tears in his reflective eyes. "Good night, Erik."

He would have liked to stand there kissing all night, but instead he squeezed her hand for a moment, nodded at her, and closed the window. She followed his lead and closed the shutters, watching him flit away like a bat.

Then she looked down at the tiny glass vial on a silver chain that he'd left in her hand. A note was wrapped around it, which she unfolded and read hastily.

_Christine, this is a more powerful form of chloroform for anyone you may need to use it on. Do not open it- the vapors will be more than enough to put you under the influence. Take care._

_ Yours (and very much in love),_

_ Erik._

Christine smiled and draped the necklace about her neck, tucking the vial below her neckline and out of sight. _Even in these dangerous times, he has not lost his humor. Dearest Erik, be safe…for my sake and yours._

…

Ciara pulled away, removing her ear from the locked door. The exchange she had witnessed had been quite touching, even when she did not know what it meant to be the recipient and reciprocator of such affections. _She is going to stop Philippe from…whatever it is he might be doing._

She knew she should stop her captive from destroying Philippe from the inside out, but oddly, she did not want to. She wanted to know what he did behind her back as well. _I cannot love him if I do not trust him. That is what Christine Daae told me; she was not lying. _Yes, she would investigate as well. Perhaps a deal might be struck: information for speaking lessons.

_It does not seem right or fair- she decided to teach me of her own free will, so I must also help her of my own free will. I only hope she will not use me as Philippe seems to use me. Yet he said he does it for me… _This left her ever more perplexed, but with a clear goal: to know her childhood friend's deeds.

Steps sounded soft thuds on the carpet. _Philippe. _She strode towards him. He had just come home from the city, as his cloak still fluttered about his moving legs, and his scent was rather faint with the cold. He greeted her with a grasp of her arm, stopping her in her tracks. "Ciara, you've changed…" That was about the only way he could describe her outfit. He removed his hat and cloak, holding them in his free hand. "…But you do look quite nice."

Ciara cursed her cheeks as they burned. She could not see the blush, but he could, and quite clearly- she had oft been told that her complexion made it appear as if her blush covered her entire face. Then she grasped his hand and nodded. His pulse had quickened, and she wondered if it was because of her. She could almost taste the sweet smell he gave off, and let him pull her just inches closer.

The dress Christine had picked for her (out of the room's large and expensive wardrobe) had been the right length for her, but it was too loose for her thin frame, so one strap drooped from her shoulder and she felt distinctly overdone. So, instead of pulling him downstairs or into her quarters for a conversation, she shook her head vehemently and bowed her head, effectively hiding her flushed face.

"Come now, I believe you look quite fetching," he teased, setting his hat atop her head, "but please avoid going out in something like that. You'll freeze!" He chuckled and wrapped her in his cloak. The house was not very well insulated. She must have been quite cold, but he was instead thinking of preserving her modesty. The dress had practically no sleeves, and she was without a shawl to cover her bare, smooth skin, hence his lending of the heavy cloak.

He studied her for a moment, and lifted her chin so he could see her eyes. _She literally cannot see how beautiful she is. _With her face red as it was, and her hair slightly mussed under his hat, she was quite the beauty, especially now that she was not training or doing some other rough activity like horseback riding. _I wonder, if she beds someone, does he make her feel beautiful, if she cannot see it for herself? _He was quite sure she could feel and hear his heart racing through his fingertips. _Let her feel it. She knows what a man feels for someone like her._

He took her hand. "I can see the shadows under your eyes, now. Get some rest." He guided her towards her room down the hall, though he knew she was in need of no assistance. Yes, she could find her way around his own house better than he in the dark. A scene appeared in his mind as he contemplated the moonlight streaming in through the windows. He would be holding both her hands, standing with her on a moonlit night such as the current one. He would press his forehead to hers and simply breathe her in and enjoy her presence in the silence… _Calm yourself. There will be time for that when you have completed M. Erik's humiliation._

The hallway was much too short for his liking, and so was the amount of time it took her to slip away from him and back into her room. She paused, facing him so that he knew she was reluctant to succumb to the call of sleep. He resisted her somewhat plaintive look. "Sleep well. Pleasant dreams…" He waited until he heard the sound of running water to traverse to his own apartments. _Pleasant dreams indeed, for I dream of you._


	18. Chapter 18: C

**Chapter 18: C**

Nadir was quite sure that he was going to go crazy caring for Anna. She had not moved for the past half hour, but it felt like a whole day. Yes, she was beautiful to look at, even while ill, but she did not see him, nor did she speak except in her delirious ramblings. Thankfully her temperature had gone down a bit, and so had the frequency of delirium, so it was likely that she'd heal. How was he going to explain his feelings for her when she awoke? _She would probably discount them, seeing as this is only a result of the quarantine._

Would she be herself again, playfully thieving, and a connoisseur of alcohol? Would she be changed by the fever, more subdued? He hoped not. He had fallen for the vibrant, energetic side of her, not a quiet, serious person. Had he simply fallen for a memory of her while in the sick room? _Perhaps love is as confusing as Erik makes it sound at times._

He smoothed Anna's red hair from her cheek and let his fingers linger on her burning skin. She had not gone into a seizure, as some victims of the fever did, and he was very grateful for that. If she'd started to convulse, she'd have died almost immediately after the fit.

He decided he liked to hold her cheek. Her face fit to his hand as if it were made for his hold. A hoarse chuckle escaped him as he thought of what she would do to him if she ever caught him treating her as tenderly as he did now. She would undoubtedly slap him for acting as if she were some frail princess.

Erik had not come with the medicine the day before, so he prayed that the contralto would not suffer without the healing fluid in her system. Her condition was stable still, but he wished it were not so. He wished that her condition would be one of health and contentment.

Inside her head, Anna's dreams had been disturbing pictures of reality, but with odd twists and illogical scene changes that told her that her experiences were completely unreal. For instance, the pesky flirt Nadir had kissed her and she had _enjoyed _it. That had decidedly not been her best dream. Sometimes she could feel him holding her hand, or mopping forehead, but then she would be overwhelmed by the strange, whimsical things her mind subjected her to.

And then her mind decided to ascend back to clarity and wakefulness. First the awareness of breathing faded in, and the air seemed cooler than she remembered from her suffocating hallucinations. More suffocating still seemed the barriers of the many blankets and sheets, and they smelled of sweat and sickness. She shifted, trying to throw them off, but too weak to do so. Her sense of color and light returned, at last, but she blinked as a face invaded her field of vision.

What struck her first was that it was a surprised face, and a pleased face, and then that it was a rather handsome face. Then she realized it was Nadir's face. She bolted upright, knocking her forehead against his nose in such a manner that if she'd sat up any faster, she'd have broken it. "Bloody 'ell, Copper, wha' y'doin' 'overin' over me like tha'?!" He only grinned at her and pulled her sweaty self into a tight and stifling embrace. "Lemme go! 'S only been a day…" Her voice faded, and she pushed him away. "…Right? Please tell me it was jus' one day."

"Actually, it's been four days." Her eyes widened, and she checked under the blanket. "And yes, during that time, I have changed and bathed you, and spoon-fed you medicine and soup, and-"

"Stop't. I don' wan' t'know," she said, rolling her eyes and clamping a hand over Nadir's mouth. Then her eyes stopped rolling and narrowed. "Y'don' happen t'have any food 'round here, d'ya?" Her stomach grumbled quite audibly, causing a slightly darkened pink coloration on her part. He laughed heartily at that.

"Get washed up and burn everything on you." She raised a defiant eyebrow. "Do you want food or not?" Her head bobbed meekly as she succumbed to hunger. "Then go across the hall, burn your clothes, wash thoroughly, and use some of the spare clothes. They're men's articles, but you should be able to improvise, seeing as you don't have any clean corsets left. In fact, everything in this room is to be burned, excluding you and I." Her face tried to decide between turning pale and turning pink again. All her belongings could be replaced, but not without the wad of money she'd brought with her upon coming to France. That money was to be burned as well.

Nadir sighed, at last realizing what the burning would mean for all the possessions in the room. "I'm sure Erik would be willing to provide for you if Christine put in her plea as well."

"An' I'm quite sure I won' need 'is 'elp. I'm goin' t'get a job."

"What? You have a job."

"No' in th'off season. I'm goin' t'work outside th'opera, in a shop, or somethin'." She ran her hands through her hair, which was already beginning to regain its spring.

"You're going to keep this job, even with Christine kidnapped and all the crews looking for work in the city as well? Your job opportunities are quite slim." Her eyebrows rose.

"Jus' 'ow much've I missed'n th'past four days?"

…

_Ciara had grown in the last three years, and now she was quite tall for her age, just as her grandfather had been. She and her mother had moved to a more respectable side of town, where Charlotte worked as a maid in a rich household. She was left to her own devices in the house more often than not, and learned quickly that her skin itched and stung in that warmth by the window that her mother called 'sun.'_

_ She also learned that there was a window in her small, cool little back room. It was covered by a curtain that she'd at last reached with her new height and pulled away. The sun did not sting her, and the windowpane was cool. She'd learned that the piece of wood that scraped over the floor when Charlotte had company was called 'stool,' and was used to reach things._

_ She'd learned that she could open the window with a 'latch' if she stood on the stool, and that she could go into a cool, dirty place called an 'alley' where a group of other small creatures like her made noise and moved quickly and did something called 'laughing.'_

_ Now she learned that they were not all called Ciara and that their guardians were not called Charlotte. They were called Jean and Marc and Luc and other small names for their small persons, 'boys.' Their guardians were called 'Mother' and 'Father.' Their voices all sounded different, so, hiding behind her corner with one ear exposed, she learned to tell them apart._

_ Today, though, there was someone different in their play group. His name was Philippe, and he was called 'rich.' That was a characteristic her mother's friends talked about often when they came for a hot, fragrant drink called 'tea.' As far as Ciara was concerned, it was just hot leaf juice without the luxury of something called 'sugar.' To be rich meant that one could afford expensive things like sugar._

_ She scooted a little closer to the corner, closer to finding out more about this Philippe. Where were his guardians? He seemed carefree, and happy. Was it because he was rich, and could afford sugar?_

_ The footsteps grew louder, and the round, bouncing object called a 'ball' ricocheted into her little space. Her heart beat fast, and she froze. She would be discovered! "I've got it! It's back-"_

_ It was the one called Philippe. His clothes sounded different from the rough material of the others'. She curled herself into a ball and promptly sat herself in the mucky corner of the alley. _Perhaps if I pretend I am the stool, and I do not move- _"Hello?" _No, I must not resemble a stool.

_Philippe carefully stepped closer to the shivering, unclothed individual. It was a little girl, obviously, and a scared one. _What is she doing out here, without clothes? Did her parents abandon her? At any rate, I must be a gentleman, just as the tutor says. It would be good practice. _He took his coat from around his shoulders and draped it over his arm, walking slowly so as not to frighten the elfish, tiny being. "Mademoiselle. Here is my coat. Here-"_

_The little girl almost flinched, and he, at ten years old, felt rather inadequate. Then, almost in wonderment, the girl lifted her head and reached out, hand groping for the garment. _She is blind! _He pushed the coat into her hand, and she stood up, cheek pressed to the soft cloth._

_Ciara breathed in the smell of the cloth, and slid her tiny hands down it as if it were the curtain in the small room that was about a third of her world. Then she felt the article being adjusted around her, and she suddenly felt warmer. She was covered down to her shins by the fabric, and found that she liked it. It felt more secure than being shut away in her room, even if she was exposed to a person other than Charlotte._

_"Here, let me help you with the buttons." She felt the hands again, at the opening of the coat, and she felt warmer still. No more cool autumn air crept through her and chilled her skin. Her hands followed Philippe's; curious as she detected the hard buttons and the regular slits they fit into. "There." He seemed to be considering what to do with her. "Why do you not speak?"_

_She shook her head, which then bowed so it appeared as though she were looking at her feet. She had found that this pose often kept her safe from her guardian's accusations of 'ghost' and 'cursed.' "You cannot?" Another moment of inquisitive silence followed. Then the rich, strange person breathed out. Her senses told her that he was glad, as she heard it in his breathing. Her senses also told her that he was cold without his coat. "Come with me. I have food waiting in the carriage, and a place you can stay."_

_That was all the motivation she needed. She cut her ties with the dark place and her cruel keeper, and followed this being that had food. Now she gained an understanding of the word 'friend.' She did not look back at the flitting, dark curtain or the open window._

_Philippe had to pull her by the arm to get her past the other boys. "Jean, the ball is still back there. I need to get home now; the nurse has probably returned from the market."_

_Jean seemed very agreeable about it (he rounded the corner to retrieve the sporting equipment), but the other two boys were not. They blocked the narrow path to freedom. Ciara almost bumped into the one called Luc as she stumblingly tried to get past. Said individual narrowed his large, childish eyes in suspicion. "Who is she, Philippe? A witch?"_

_His friend backed him up in his efforts to bully their rich counterpart. "She looks like a witch. Her eyes are red, and she's all white." Philippe lifted his chin, even though he was several inches shorter than Marc, and sniffed._

_"She is not a witch, she is an albino." He felt rather proud of knowing the term. He had read it in his book on medicine. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go." He shoved at Marc's shoulder, trying to push past. Marc did not move, but Luc did. The world spun, and his jaw ached, and he was suddenly flat on his back in the dirt. He looked up. The two street boys seemed quite smug for just having knocked him over. They had to fight him, because it was a disgrace to strike a girl, was it not? It was a disgrace to fight even a witch girl._

_Ciara's little hands fisted. Her heart beat faster, and her face and ears felt as if they had touched the sunlight. She was moving before she realized what she intended to do. Philippe was up on his feet again, but she barely noticed. She was too busy beating the smugness from Luc's person, and giving him no time to react as she repeatedly struck at his stomach and arms, and wherever seemed to cause him pain. It was her unspoken duty to repay him for her new friend's hurts tenfold._

_The child Marc, though stronger and taller than the young duke-to-be, was nowhere near as skilled in the art of fencing or boxing. He was unconscious within sixty seconds, because he did not know how to fight with a broken switch of oak wood. Luc ran from the white-hued little girl he had deemed a witch, mostly because he was a coward and did not want to be seen scrapping with a female._

_"I would ask your name, but you cannot tell me, and you cannot write it to me." He looked down at his pale companion, who tilted her head slightly. An old woman dressed in black approached them._

_"Philippe, have you been in another fight? You know how your parents will be upset," she croaked. Ciara could tell her throat was something called 'sore.' "And who is this young lady here? Does she not have clothes?" Said young lady felt the corners of her mouth twitch up. It was an unfamiliar feeling. Beside her, the old nanny's charge sighed._

_"Yes, I know, this is my new friend, and no. Can we keep her?"_

_The nurse, who had long since become used to the boy's strung-out answers, turned around to head out of the alley with a sigh. "Your parents will be upset about this, for certain."_

_"So we are keeping her?"_

_"Of course we are keeping her. Now follow me, little girl. You look as if you are in need of some meat." Philippe cheered. Ciara had only one question, one that she could not voice, and did not feel interested in trying to voice. She would find out soon enough. _What is 'meat'?

…

Erik had not planned on taking Jacques Bennue with him to investigate Philippe's office, but the man seemed to know more about the duke and his workplace than he. Besides, what was the harm if there really were two vicious, bloodthirsty beasts hidden inside the building? He had long since determined never to let any fight be uncertain, even with wild animals.

"M. Erik, are you going to tranquilize those animals or kill them?" M. Bennue asked anxiously. "I would kill them."

"Did I ask for your opinion?" Erik pointed out as he whirled about.

"N-no."

"Then please, M. Bennue, remain silent unless you have useful information." It was but two minutes before they reached the office. Erik picked the lock easily and stepped into the darkened room. As far as he could see, it was a plainer room, unnaturally humble for one so rich. A grandfather clock ticked next to the leftmost bookshelf, and stacks of paper were spread over an ornate desk. Aside from those two expensive pieces of furniture, there was nothing of worth- unless the papers were faked official documents. _The duke probably uses those papers to get his way._

He rifled through the stacks. _A bill for steel, for acres of land just outside the city, for various chemical items, letters to rich allies- a map of a warehouse? _The lines drawn in addition to the shape of the building indicated halls and rooms added, likely with stone or concrete. Each small room had a number on it, but they were out of order. Some numbers were missing altogether. _It's the map of the prison. If there are numbers for people, perhaps there is a key._

A sliding sound interrupted his thoughts. Light speared the shadows of the place, and not from the front door. "M. Erik, the animals are behind here." A rather guarded growl sounded from behind the moving bookcase. "I…believe that you are better qualified to handle them than I. Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I will wait outside." Erik could not resist rolling his eyes as the skittish former spy hurried outside. How bad could a couple of near-tame large felines be?

He reached into his cloak and grasped two vials of tranquilizer. It was fairly strong stuff, more like a drug than anything else. The little kitties would be out cold for at least three days. This way, they could be spared the taste of human flesh and their imminent deaths at the hands of frightened Parisians. Quite honestly, he valued the specimens' lives more than the safety of a few citizens. They would make fine additions to his theatre…or the city zoo. Still, there were two of them, he didn't have to share.

A low growl sounded from behind the bookcase. _Did the duke not have the creativity to keep his secret room behind something other than a shelf? I wonder how he survives his own clichés_, Erik thought with a wry smile. He eased the door (or shelf) aside and contemplated the oversized cats before him.

They were large and black, just as he remembered from his world travels to places such as Southeast Asia. They had the typical reflective, yellow-green eyes with their slit pupils slightly dilated in the dark. All in all, there was nothing unusual about them, except for the fact that they had not attacked yet and were watching as if he were the creature out of place and not them. _They cannot be kept in such a small place the entire time. The duke must let them exercise somehow, and that means-_

He stepped forward carefully. The panthers' eyes followed him without suspicion or fear. If they feared him, or if he made any sudden moves, they would rip him to a bloody mist. Then M. Bennue would have to have them killed, and he would be stuck in the afterlife.

A particularly large nail snagged his shoe as he took another slow step into the room. _I should tranquilize them now, but why should I when they are part of Mother Nature's best when awake? They are tame- mostly. _He knelt and examined the nail. It was not rusted as the other metal parts in the room were; it was a newer nail, and from the dents in the head, intentionally installed. He ran his index over it and was almost nudged onto his face by an angular feline nose. He had not heard one certain cat's silence.

The slight stumble made him move forward. He reexamined the nail and pulled it- a section of flooring lifted, and a draft blew up from below. _Yet another cliché- he has a passage under the floor. Does he have no creativity? _The wood was pushed aside and he hurriedly ducked into the tunnel.

Chains clanked behind him, and the grating of claws on stone and wood irritated his eardrums. He looked back. The two pairs of eyes stared back at him. _Perhaps they wish for a walk. They seem harmless enough… _He climbed back up into the room and examined the collars around the cats' necks. It was simple to pick at and undo them. They followed him into the darkness.

Now there were three pairs of reflective eyes.

…

Christine huffed and slid open yet another empty drawer. She had hoped that there might be some clue, perhaps a map or a deed or an official document of some kind in the downstairs region of the mansion, but there was none to be found. She had been searching the house with Ciara for nearly eight hours now, and with no reward but the occasional snack and trip to a lavatory. "Well, nothing here…again; it's a record: Twenty-five rooms, two cabinets, and two drawers with nothing useful in them." She looked up at her silent companion, who was digging through the twenty-sixth writing desk of the day. The albino held up a stack of unused envelopes. "No seals or official marks. Sorry."

Ciara shrugged and placed the stack back into its container. It had been a little harder for her to distinguish between papers because she could not read, but with Christine's eyes to assist; she had come up with the same as her charge. There was nothing found.

With a resigned sigh, the captured singer exited the room and settled on an old but clean couch in the sitting room. It was now late in the afternoon, and Philippe had not returned. She noticed Ciara at the piano and reluctantly rose to join her. "Is there something on your mind?"

_Everyone makes many sounds when they speak. I have learned to hum, but it is only one sound. _Comprehension both caused a small intake of breath and raised eyebrows on Christine's part. _It makes sense, then, that I learn the sounds next._

Even though the thin, white fingers pressed the keys slowly, her understanding left her almost floundering. Vocalizing was easy compared with teaching specific sounds. "It will take some time. How long before Philippe is back?"

_Not long. I hear his horse at the gates. You should hide. _Her eyes widened.

"What?! Where?" she asked, looking around frantically for someplace to hide.

_Try the closet around the corner. He won't be looking there anytime soon. _Christine soon disappeared. The sound of a door closing followed, and for a moment, Ciara was alone again. Then the large, heavy front doors opened, and she was not alone. She waited for Philippe to sit down.

_How are you? _She tugged a loose strand of hair from her forehead and smoothed it back again. Guilt gnawed at her mind. What would he think if he knew she had been trying to pry into private business matters?

_I tire of thinking. _Philippe watched her eyes, and the way they blinked, but did not move. Sometimes he wished that her sight would be restored, just so that he could feel what it was to be looked at by her. Then he would remind himself that restoring sight to the blind was impossible, and that wishful thinking caused depression, hence his tiring of thought.

_Then sleep. Sometimes that is the least tiring mode of thinking. _She leaned against him just slightly, so that their shoulders touched. _Why have you never tried to teach me to speak? _He tensed, and knew she could feel it. _You have heard that I can cry._

_ You never mentioned that you wanted to speak. _He laid his palm over her thin arm and felt that she was warm despite the lack of sunlight in the house. _The doctors had examined you, and thought that you could not speak, since you had not learned. _His hand did not remove itself, and he also felt the hard, sinewy muscles in her forearm shift as she played out another sentence.

_Let me show you something. _Her hand was familiar on his shoulder as he nodded his consent.

Ciara took a calming breath and tried to relax. Her thumb pressed the middle C key, and she opened her mouth. At first, only a whisper of a buzz came out, a buzz similar to a croak, and she ducked her head, blushing. Her hands slipped from the keys. What if she couldn't do it again? Then the weight of her friend's arm around her shoulder pulled her closer to him. "You are amazing. Never let a minor embarrassment stop you," he whispered, and placed her right hand on the C again. "Try again."

She played the note again, breathed, opened her throat, and expelled the sound of the note. It felt strange, the vibration and the loudness of her own voice in her head, as well as the fact that the sound did not mimic any particular vowel or soft consonant. Stranger still was the fact that she was cut off after only two seconds. Philippe had caught her in a crushing hug (not that she minded it very much).

"You did it. You will be able to speak soon, I know it…" Her face was buried into the crook of his shoulder, and her hands were finding their own purchase on his back, but she could still feel the moisture as it dripped from his face onto the cloth of her shirt. He whispered wonderful, kind things, and held her, and best of all, did not tire from it as he did from thinking.

Yet there was still that odd smell of a thorough wash under the smells of dust, leather, and his horse. Her hand on his back felt that he was still tense from something, and he had gone silent. His embrace seemed for his own relaxation as much as for celebration. She had to remove herself from him and ask: _What is wrong? Where have you been today?_

_ I cannot tell you now; only when it is done. Mlle. Christine Daae will be released when I finish, and we will spend time together again. I will tell you then. _He kept his gaze forward again, awkward in the wake of her suspicion and sorrow. He was happy that she fought her mute state, truly, but her distrust hurt, even when it was earned.

He felt her slim fingers squeeze his hand, and he watched dumbly as she played on. _I will be out tonight, or for a few nights. I will come back soon. _He nodded and sighed, his disappointment almost tangible.

_Be safe, and don't put yourself in any danger._

_ You know I will. _This cracked a grin from him. Then his smile sobered.

_Yes, but I tell you so because I care. There are people who would kill you for your looks. _Her fingers slipped through his barrier of awkwardness to hold his hand, and suddenly, they were best friends again. Neither was ready to let go, but Ciara finally did.

_Never worry for me. I am as safe on the streets as I am when we train. _Slowly, her timid fingers slid up his arm to settle at the back of his neck. It gave her a small rush to feel his skin temperature rise slightly. His heart was fluttering, and hers adopted the same rhythm simply because she now knew he _must_ feel something more for her than friendship.

The corner of her mouth twitched as he playfully elbowed her side. _What do you mean? You are most certainly not safe when we train! _He sniffed in mock haughtiness.

_I know I am, actually, because you would never hurt me. _Another awkward silence permeated the air around them, and then: _I must go now. I should be back by tomorrow night, at least._

_ Good night, Ciara, and good luck. _He felt her leave his side and it hurt more than he had anticipated. It hurt because she was so sure that he would not hurt her, but he was not sure at all. The soft shuffling at the door signaled the donning of her cloak. In a moment, she was gone.

Christine sighed to herself and knelt in the small place of heavy coats and expensive hats. She would have to spend the night in the closet, it seemed. Perhaps she would be able to sleep as well…no. The expensive, heeled shoe behind her was too insistent on gouging at her shoulder.


End file.
